Cracks In Doll
766 Words
Enzo Valdez had always trusted his instincts. It’s what had kept him alive this long.
A single glance, a single twitch of the eye, a wrong breath in the wrong moment—he could see danger in all of it. And right now, that instinct screamed at him like a siren blaring in the back of his mind.
Alora Vito was not what she appeared.
He leaned against the glass-paneled wall of his private office, staring down at the garden below where she sat quietly, a book in hand and her legs crossed like some perfect statue of grace.
Too quiet.
Too composed.
He’d broken men twice her size with less than a word, and yet she stood beside him each day without fear, without faltering. As if she knew something. As if she was playing a game he hadn’t realized he was part of.
And Enzo hated being played.
⸻
That night, when the house had gone still and only the guards whispered at the gates, Enzo moved like a shadow into her room.
She wasn’t asleep.
She sat at the vanity, brushing her hair with slow, elegant strokes, as if she’d been waiting for him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked without looking at him.
“How long have you been lying to me?” he asked, skipping straight past pretense.
Alora met his eyes in the mirror. “About what?”
He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a quiet click. “You’re too calm. Too polished. Girls like you cry on the first night. They beg. They ask when they’re allowed to go home.”
“I was raised to marry into war, Enzo,” she said softly. “I just didn’t expect the war to be you.”
His hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t play clever.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“Then why do I feel like you know more than you should?”
She turned in her chair now, eyes level with his. “Because I listen.”
“Bullshit.”
“You think hatred makes you untouchable,” she said. “But it makes you predictable. I’ve watched your father long enough to know when a man builds walls that high, he’s hiding something behind them.”
Enzo stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Don’t talk like you know my family.”
“I know power. I know what it costs.”
His gaze turned sharp. “Did your father tell you something before sending you here?”
She tilted her head. “Why? Afraid I came with secrets?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he walked past her, ran a hand along the spine of the books on her shelf, scanning the titles like they might whisper what she was hiding.
“You think you’re playing this well, Vito. But you’re not. You may dress like a queen, smile like a saint—but I know better.”
She rose from her seat, walking toward him slowly.
“Then tell me,” she whispered. “What do you know?”
He turned to her so fast it made her breath hitch. He gripped her chin with one hand—not hard, but with just enough pressure to make her heart stumble.
“That you’re a threat.”
Her eyes widened slightly, just for a second.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Surprise.
Then: “To who? You?”
He stared at her. Cold. Calculating. And still—no feelings. Only fire. Only hatred.
“You’re not here to be a wife,” he said. “You’re here for something else. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will. And when I find out—”
She smiled.
A small, tired thing. But it made his grip falter.
“You’ll destroy me?” she said. “Go ahead, Enzo. Tear me apart. But don’t lie to yourself while you do it.”
His jaw clenched.
He released her.
Turned away.
“Don’t leave your door unlocked again,” he said, voice hard.
“I didn’t,” she replied quietly.
He paused. Then, without a word, vanished into the hallway.
⸻
Back in his study, Enzo poured himself a drink with shaking hands. He stared at the swirling amber in the glass like it might offer answers.
She’s hiding something.
That wasn’t a question. It was fact.
But what gnawed at him even more was this:
She had walked into the lion’s den without fear.
And somehow, he had the feeling that if anyone in this house should be afraid…
…it wasn’t her.
- Writer
