The Moretti penthouse was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, like being inside a museum after hours. Even the marble floors seemed to echo too loudly beneath Aria's bare feet as she walked, searching for a place any place, where she could breathe without feeling the weight of Dante's world pressing against her lungs.
It had been weeks since she moved into his domain of glass, steel, and shadows.
The contract ring still felt heavy on her finger. Everything she touched belonged to him. Everything she wore had been chosen by him. Even the air felt filtered through his control.
But today, she needed a moment that belonged to her alone.
As she wandered down the quieter west hallway, an area she had never explored, she pushed open a door expecting another cold, unused lounge room. Instead, she stepped into a space that made her heart stop.
A home studio.
Not massive, not grand, but flooded with light. Two enormous windows framed the city skyline, and in the center of the room stood a table and several blank canvases leaning against the wall. A faint scent of turpentine lingered in the air.
Her breath caught.
"Paints," she whispered, moving toward the metal storage drawer. Her hand shook as she pulled it open.
Brushes. Acrylics. Oil tubes. Charcoal.
It all hit her at once.
He had stocked it.
Dante Moretti, cold, ruthless, calculated had arranged for these things after reading her background file when preparing the marriage contract.
She remembered it clearly. Art student. Painter. A hobby I assume, Miss Lane.
She'd told him once, offhandedly during a particularly tense dinner: I don't paint anymore.
Yet here this room was. Waiting.
As if he'd known she would eventually return.
Her fingers curled around a flat brush, the familiar wood against her palm like touching a piece of herself she thought she'd buried along with her old life.
She exhaled shakily, pulled a canvas upright, and mixed her first colors in months.
The strokes were slow at first. Rusty. Hesitant.
Then something inside her cracked open.
Every fear, every humiliation, every quiet moment of loneliness spilled onto the white surface. She didn't paint a landscape or a figure; she painted emotion, violent oranges, frightened streaks of black, furious swirls of red. The world slipped away. Her breathing steadied. Her hands stopped shaking.
For the first time since the wedding, she felt alive.
The door clicked.
Aria froze.
A shadow fell over the room.
Dante stood at the entrance, still in his navy suit, tie loosened, dark hair slightly disheveled, as if he had come straight from a fight or a boardroom war. His silver eyes locked onto her.
And the painting.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink. He simply stared, and Aria felt stripped bare.
She straightened, almost defensively placing her body between him and the canvas.
Dante finally stepped forward, his footsteps slow, hands in his pockets, a sign he was trying not to intimidate her. Or a sign he felt something he didn't know how to handle.
"Is that what you feel," he said quietly, "in my house?"
The question hit her harder than his most cutting command.
Because the painting… it was chaos. A storm. A woman trapped. A woman screaming.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't mean..."
"You did." His voice was deeper now, more serious. "And that's what makes it… honest."
He moved closer.
Too close.
She stepped back, but he followed, stopping just a breath away. His gaze dipped to her paint-stained hands.
"You haven't held a brush since your father fell ill," he murmured.
Her breath caught.
"How do you..."
"I make it my business to know everything about you."
The words should have sounded arrogant, controlling. They were, but there was something else beneath them tonight. Something like… regret.
Dante reached for her hand, but stopped midway, choosing instead to study the paint smudges on her wrist.
"I didn't expect the colors to look like this," he said. "Angry. Frightened."
"I didn't ask you to come in here," Aria said, her voice trembling but steadying. "And you don't get to analyze me like one of your business deals."
He lifted his eyes to hers.
And for the first time since they married, Dante looked unsure.
"You're right," he said softly.
The admission stunned her.
He lowered his gaze again, then slowly walked toward the canvas. He didn't touch it. He simply stood there, hands behind his back, silver eyes tracing every line, every violent clash of color.
"This world," he finally said, "is ugly. I won't lie to you about that. I brought you into it. I forced you into it."
"Through a contract," she whispered.
"Yes." His jaw clenched. "Through a contract."
He exhaled slowly, as if something heavy pressed against him.
"But I didn't do this to destroy you, Aria." His voice dropped. "I needed you safe. I needed your father safe."
Her fingers tightened around her brush. "You need control."
He didn't deny it. He couldn't.
Instead, he asked quietly, "Does all of this .." he motioned to the painting, "mean you hate me?"
Her chest tightened again.
"I don't know," she whispered.
For a moment, the room was silent except for their breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Then Dante stepped closer not in command this time, but almost in hesitation, as if approaching a wild creature he feared might bolt.
"I built this room for you," he said softly. "Before the wedding."
She blinked. The confession hit her like a blow.
"For me?"
"I thought…" He trailed off, gaze shifting away. "I thought you might need something that wasn't mine. Something that was yours."
Her throat closed.
His voice lowered, rougher now. "I didn't expect you to use it."
"Why?"
"Because…" His jaw flexed, eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "Because I didn't expect you to stay long enough to try."
Her heart thudded painfully.
"You want me gone that badly?" she whispered.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp, intense.
"No," he said, a little too quickly. "I want you to be safe."
But she heard the truth in his tone.
He didn't want her gone.
He didn't know how to want her close either.
A man built out of contradictions.
Dante took a step back, clearing his throat, retrieving the cold armor he always wore.
"I won't disturb you when you're painting again."
Aria blinked.
"Again?"
"I assume," he said, silver eyes lingering on her stained fingers, "this won't be your last time."
She didn't answer.
Because deep down, she knew she would return to these colors. This escape. This small piece of herself refused to let Dante take.
Dante turned toward the door, but paused, hand hovering near the knob.
"Aria."
She lifted her gaze.
"You paint storms." His voice softened, almost reverent. "But you stand in them too."
Then he left.
Aria stared at the doorway long after he disappeared. Her heartbeat still echoed in her ears, tangled with confusion she didn't want to name.
She turned back to the canvas.
This time, when she picked up the brush, the colors came gentler. Softer. Not peace… but something shifting.
Something beginning.