The villa was too still. Hours passed, but Damian didn't return. The guards outside kept their posts, silent and unmoving, while the clock in the hallway ticked with cruel precision. Alessia tried to read, to distract herself, but every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of leaves outside—made her flinch.
By late afternoon, the silence had become unbearable. She wandered through the villa, her fingers brushing over the polished furniture, the cold marble counters, the heavy drapes that shut out the world. Everything here was beautiful, expensive, lifeless. Just like the life Damian had built.
In the study, she found a half-empty glass of whiskey and a file left open on the desk. Her curiosity warred with caution, but the need to understand him—to understand the danger surrounding them—won.
Inside were photographs. Men in suits. Surveillance shots. A map of the city marked with red circles. And then, at the bottom of the pile, a picture of her.
Her breath caught. It wasn't recent—it was from before the marriage, before the blood pact. She was smiling, carefree, standing outside her father's gallery. The sight of it made her chest ache.
"Why would he have this?" she whispered.
"Because I needed to know who I was marrying."
The voice came from behind her. She spun around. Damian stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his presence filling the room like a storm.
"You scared me," she said, pressing a hand to her chest.
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the file.
"You shouldn't go through my things."
"Then don't leave them lying around," she shot back. "You had me followed before the wedding?"
"Yes."
The bluntness of it stung. "Why?"
"Because your father is a liar," he said. "And I don't trust anyone who carries his name."
Her anger flared. "So you married me to keep your enemies close?"
He didn't answer. His silence was worse than any confession.
She turned away, her voice trembling. "You talk about protecting me, but all you've done is cage me. You don't even see me, Damian. You see a threat, a pawn, a name."
He moved closer, his voice low. "You think I don't see you? I see too much."
Her breath hitched as he stopped inches away. The air between them thickened, charged with something dangerous.
"Then what do you see?" she whispered.
His eyes darkened. "A woman who shouldn't be here. Who should hate me. Who makes me forget why I built these walls in the first place."
Her pulse quickened. "And what happens when the walls fall?"
He reached out, his fingers brushing her jaw, his touch both tender and possessive. "Then everything burns."
For a moment, neither moved. The world outside ceased to exist—no guards, no enemies, no blood. Just the two of them, standing on the edge of something that could destroy them both.
Then Damian stepped back, his expression shuttered again. "Pack your things. We're leaving tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Somewhere no one can find us."
"Running won't fix this," she said softly.
He looked at her, his voice rough. "I'm not running. I'm preparing for war."
When he left the room, Alessia sank into the chair, her heart pounding. The file still lay open on the desk, her photograph staring up at her like a ghost from another life.
She traced the edge of the picture with trembling fingers. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the truth—whatever war Damian was preparing for, she was already part of it.
And this time, there would be no safe place left to hide.