Chapter 4:Private Conversation
691 Words
The room was dimly lit—walls of dark oak, shelves lined with aged books and bottles of expensive liquor. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber shadows along the edges of Saint Leonardo Rossi’s private study.
Emily stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her black dress clung to her like armor, but the way her fingers dug into her own arms betrayed the truth.
Saint stood by a sideboard, pouring himself a drink with the kind of slow calm only men used to power could manage. He didn’t offer her anything. Maybe he knew she wouldn’t have accepted it even if he had.
He finally turned toward her, his storm-gray eyes resting on her like a weight. “You’re trembling.”
Emily flinched slightly at the sound of his voice—deep, steady, emotionless. Still, she lifted her chin. “I’m cold.”
He let that sit between them for a moment. Then stepped forward, his footsteps silent against the rug.
“Is that what you’re going to do, Emily? Lie to me?”
Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t used to being seen—really seen.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said quietly. “I didn’t ask to be given away like property.”
“You weren’t given to me,” he replied, stopping just a few feet away. “You were sold. There’s a difference.”
The words hit like a slap, but he wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was being honest—and that made it worse.
She blinked hard. “So I’m just a transaction to you?”
Saint took a sip of his drink. “To your father, yes.”
“But not to you?” she challenged, her voice barely steady.
He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep. If I wanted a puppet, I would’ve chosen someone quieter. But I chose you.”
That startled her. Her brows drew together. “You… chose me?”
Saint stepped closer. He was tall—towering over her but never leaning in. He didn’t need to intimidate. His stillness did the work for him.
“I knew your father would give you up for the right price,” he said. “I also knew you weren’t like him. I’ve been watching you, Emily.”
Her heart stuttered. “Watching me?”
“I had to make sure the girl I was promising my name to was worth the risk. And you are.”
Silence filled the room like smoke. Emily didn’t know whether to feel flattered or violated. “So I passed your test?”
“No,” he said. “You intrigued me.”
Her breath hitched again.
“You hate him,” Saint said softly. “That’s good. Hatred is honest. It’s clean. Love… love turns people weak. Love makes them blind. But hate? Hate is sharp.”
Emily’s hands fell to her sides. “I’m not interested in being part of your twisted philosophy.”
“And yet here you are,” he said calmly. “In my home. Wearing my name soon.”
A flicker of something shifted in her eyes—grief, anger, maybe both. “If I do this, it’s for my siblings. Not for you. Not for loyalty. Not for blood.”
Saint nodded slowly. “I expect nothing else.”
She moved to step past him, needing distance, space—air. But just as she did, his voice stopped her again.
“Emily.”
She turned.
“If you ever want to leave,” he said, “you won’t run. You’ll tell me. And I’ll let you go.”
She stared at him, unsure whether to believe him. “Why?”
“Because I’m not your father,” Saint said simply.
And in that one moment, with those six words, something in her armor cracked.
But she didn’t show it.
Instead, she nodded once, then walked away—head high, spine straight.
Saint watched her go.
And for the first time in a long time…
He smiled.
- Writer
