A Name on His Lips
534 Words
The storm outside had quieted, but inside the Viero estate, another kind of storm raged — one made of questions, half-glances, and growing tension.
Ariana sat near the fireplace in her room, her knees drawn to her chest, the flickering flames reflecting in her wide eyes. She hadn’t seen Dominic since the incident in the hallway — since he uttered her name like it meant something.
She touched her lips absentmindedly, remembering the way his voice had sounded — like gravel, rough and unsure.
Why did he look at her like that? Why did he say her name like it was the first and last word in the world?
He never used her name. Never.
A knock sounded on her door.
Her spine stiffened. “Come in,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
It wasn’t Dominic.
It was Greta, the housekeeper. “Mr. Viero asked you to join him for dinner. Formal dining room. Ten minutes.”
Greta was gone before Ariana could even respond.
Dinner?
He never ate with her.
She stared at the door for a moment longer before moving to her closet. She had no idea what to wear. Would he expect her to dress up? Be modest? Be obedient?
After changing into a soft black dress that fell just below her knees, Ariana left her room and followed the candle-lit hallway to the formal dining room.
Dominic was already seated.
He didn’t look up when she entered. He was sipping from a glass of something amber, something expensive.
“Sit,” he said without emotion.
She obeyed.
The silence between them stretched.
Ariana watched the way his jaw tightened. How his hands clenched around the glass like he was holding back something primal.
Finally, she spoke. “Why did you call me by my name?”
His gaze lifted — slow, deadly, intense.
“You didn’t like it?” he asked.
She swallowed. “You’ve never used it before.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
She hesitated. “I liked it,” she said quietly.
Dominic leaned back in his chair, his eyes devouring her like he was trying to memorize every inch of her face.
“You’re not furniture, Ariana.”
Her heart stuttered.
“What am I then?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood, walked around the table, and stopped behind her. His fingers brushed her hair aside. “I don’t know,” he said near her ear. “That’s the problem.”
She closed her eyes, her breath caught somewhere between anticipation and fear.
The warmth of his presence, the scent of his cologne — it all wrapped around her like chains she didn’t want to break.
When his lips brushed her neck, she gasped.
But he stepped away.
“That’s all,” he said coldly. “You may return to your room.”
Her chest heaved as she watched him walk out of the dining room.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like a prisoner.
She felt like a puzzle he couldn’t solve — and she liked it.
She liked being something he couldn’t control.
Even if she knew it would break her in the end.
- Writer
