The first thing I noticed wasn't the cold marble floor beneath my bare feet.
It wasn't the men lining the walls in tailored black suits, nor the heavy scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne that clung to the air.
It was him.
He stood near the tall windows overlooking the city, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed yet impossibly commanding. He didn't turn when I entered. He didn't need to. The room already revolved around him, as if gravity itself answered to his presence.
I felt it instantly.
That suffocating awareness.
That dangerous pull.
My heart stuttered in my chest.
"This is her," my uncle said beside me, his voice falsely confident. "Rhea."
The man by the window finally moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He turned his head just enough for his profile to come into view—sharp jaw, dark stubble, a scar cutting through his eyebrow like a permanent reminder of violence survived and inflicted. His eyes were dark. Not just brown or black, but hollow. Bottomless.
Predatory.
His gaze slid over me without apology.
I was being assessed.
Not admired.
Not desired.
Measured.
My spine stiffened beneath the thin fabric of my dress. I clenched my fists, forcing myself not to step back. Fear was a weakness in rooms like this. I had learned that lesson young.
"You're late," he said.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Almost bored.
My uncle swallowed. "Apologies, Mr. De Luca. There were… complications."
The man's eyes flicked briefly to him, sharp enough to silence him instantly.
"I wasn't speaking to you."
My breath caught.
Those eyes returned to me.
"You," he continued. "Look at me."
I hesitated for half a second too long.
That was a mistake.
His gaze hardened, a subtle shift that made the temperature in the room drop. I lifted my chin and met his eyes.
Something twisted in my chest.
This man wasn't merely powerful.
He was inevitable.
"Good," he said quietly. "At least she understands basic obedience."
Heat rushed to my face, anger burning through the fear. "I understand when I'm being disrespected."
A murmur rippled through the room.
My uncle hissed my name under his breath, panic seeping into his tone.
But the man—Alessandro De Luca, I realized distantly—smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't amused.
It was sharp. Dangerous.
"Interesting," he murmured. "They told me you were quiet."
"They lied," I replied before I could stop myself.
Silence slammed down around us.
Alessandro took a step forward.
Then another.
Each step felt like a countdown.
When he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my head back to look at him. He was close enough now that I could smell him—leather, smoke, something darker beneath it all.
His hand lifted.
Slowly.
I flinched despite myself.
He noticed.
His fingers paused inches from my chin.
"Don't," he said softly. "I don't enjoy fear."
Liar, my mind screamed.
He tilted my chin up with two fingers, forcing my gaze to remain locked on his.
"Do you know why you're here, Rhea?"
My throat tightened. "Because my family owes you money."
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
"Yes," he said. "And because debts must be paid."
I swallowed. "I'm not money."
"No," he agreed calmly. "You're collateral."
The word landed like a slap.
I pulled my chin free from his grasp, stepping back. "I didn't agree to this."
He studied me for a long moment, as if considering whether my words deserved a response.
Then he spoke.
"You don't belong to yourself anymore."
My chest constricted.
"This isn't an engagement," he continued, voice level. "It's an arrangement. You will live under my roof. You will follow my rules. In return, your family survives."
My nails dug into my palms. "And if I refuse?"
A faint smile curved his lips.
"You won't."
Confidence. Absolute. Unshakable.
I laughed, the sound brittle. "You're awfully sure of yourself."
"I don't deal in uncertainty."
He turned away from me, addressing the room instead. "Leave us."
No one hesitated.
Within seconds, the room emptied, the heavy doors closing behind the last man with a final, echoing thud.
I was alone with him.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"This is illegal," I said, forcing the words out. "You can't just—buy people."
He faced me again, expression unreadable. "You'd be surprised what money can do."
"I'll scream."
"You won't," he said simply.
"Why?"
"Because no one would come."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
"You're afraid," he observed.
"I'm angry," I shot back.
"They feel similar," he replied. "But fear lasts longer."
He walked past me, unbuttoning his suit jacket, utterly unbothered. "You'll be taken to my estate tonight."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
He stopped.
Turned.
And in two strides, he was in front of me again.
This time, his hand closed around my wrist.
Firm. Unyielding.
Not painful.
Possessive.
Electricity shot up my arm, traitorous and unwelcome.
"You will," he said quietly. "Because whether you accept it or not, your life already changed the moment your family signed my name."
I yanked my hand free. "You don't own me."
He leaned down, his face inches from mine.
"I do now."
My breath hitched.
"For the record," he added softly, "I don't want a broken doll. I want a woman who knows she's trapped—and fights anyway."
His eyes darkened. "Those are the ones who last."
He straightened, turning toward the door. "Get ready. We leave in an hour."
As he walked away, my legs finally gave out.
I sank into the nearest chair, chest heaving.
Owned.
That was the word echoing in my mind.
And terrifyingly—
A small, traitorous part of me wondered what it would cost to escape a man like Alessandro De Luca.