Happy Readingđź“– đź’•
Author's POV
The room was suffocatingly quiet, yet her breath came sharp and uneven, like someone trapped beneath water. She didn't know how she had ended up there, but her eyes were locked — frozen — on the scene unfolding only a few feet away.
A girl stood by the bed, her laughter soft, her hands brushing against the man's chest as if she belonged there. The man leaned closer, his voice low, his touch tender — too tender. The air between them was heavy, charged with intimacy that made the walls feel smaller, tighter, unbearable.
She wanted to scream. Her lips parted, but nothing came. Her throat burned, yet no sound escaped.
She wanted to move, to step forward, to pull them apart — but her body refused her command. Her hands felt nailed to her sides, her feet glued to the cold floor. All she could do was watch as the girl's head tilted back, her hair spilling like ink against the man's arm, as he bent closer, whispering words she couldn't hear but could feel like knives slicing through her chest.
Every touch was a betrayal. Every smile was a wound.
Her heart thundered so loud that it drowned the silence, hammering against her ribs, screaming what her mouth couldn't. Still, her body remained locked, a prisoner in her own skin, forced to witness what no one should ever have to see.
Her eyes blurred, but not from tears — it was rage, disbelief, pain tangled into one storm. She blinked, but the vision didn't change. The girl's fingers traced the man's jawline, her lips almost grazing his.
"No…" the word trembled in her mind, clawing for release.
But her voice was gone.
The walls seemed to echo with the weight of her silence.
And then—
Thump. Thump.
A hollow knock shattered the scene. The sound ricocheted against her ears, dragging her violently back.
Thump. Thump.
It grew louder, faster, as if someone was pounding directly against her chest.
Her breath snapped, and suddenly she was awake.
She sat upright in bed, her skin damp with sweat, her chest heaving as if she had been running. Her hands clutched the sheets as though she had just pulled herself out of a drowning sea.
Thump. Thump.
The knocking hadn't been in her head. It was real.
She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor, still trembling from the remnants of the dream. For a heartbeat she hesitated — afraid that if she opened the door, she might see them again, real this time.
But the knocking persisted.
She forced herself up, every movement heavy, dragging herself to the door. When she pulled it open, the blinding morning light from the corridor spilled inside.
A man stood there — the butler, or perhaps one of the household staff. His voice was calm, almost too calm against the chaos still screaming inside her.
"Madam," he said with a slight bow. "Sir asked me to call you for breakfast. '
Her lips parted, but no words came at first. The dream still clung to her like smoke.
She simply nodded, her expression unreadable, her eyes distant.
And in that silence, she hid everything — the nightmare, the brokenness, the ache.
Then, without a word, she closed the door halfway and turned, her shadow stretching long across the room, carrying with it the weight of all that she had just seen, all that she could not forget.
Her hand lingered on the door handle even after the servant had walked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor. For a long moment, she just stood there, listening to the silence creep back into the room.
Then, with a slow exhale, she closed the door and leaned her back against it, her eyes drifting once more to the space that had haunted her since last night — since years, if she admitted it.
The room looked the same. Too much the same.
The heavy curtains hung where they always had, the faint scent of sandalwood still laced the air, and the painting on the far wall still stared back at her with an expressionless calm. Nothing had changed — not the furniture, not the dimness of the light, not even him.
Her gaze lingered on the leather armchair by the window. It was empty now, but her mind betrayed her. She saw him there again — the shadow of the man who had been sitting in this same room for years, his presence stitched into the air, into the silence, into her.
"Not him," she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling though no one was there to hear. "Not me. Neither of us has changed."
The words cut her sharper than the dream had.
She turned quickly, as if escaping from her own reflection, and made her way toward the washroom. The mirror greeted her with an honesty she despised — pale skin from restless sleep, hair slightly tangled from tossing in bed, eyes still carrying the weight of a nightmare.
She let the cold water run, splashing it over her face until her breathing calmed. When she finally looked up again, she caught her own eyes in the mirror. They didn't belong to the girl who once hid behind soft smiles and untamed laughter. These were colder, sharper, eyes that had seen too much and trusted too little.
"Today," she murmured, brushing her fingers across the droplets on her cheeks, "you go out there as someone else."
And so she did.
From the wardrobe, she chose her armor — not in steel, but in fabric. A crisp, tailored dress in a deep shade of navy blue that hugged her frame perfectly. The neckline wasn't daring, but the cut exuded authority. She fastened a thin belt around her waist, slipped on pointed heels, and let her hair fall loosely with a deliberate precision.
When she was done, she didn't look soft. She didn't look fragile.
She looked bold. Beautiful. Yet cold. Calm. A contradiction woven into every line of her being.
She stood in front of the mirror one last time and drew in a breath. The reflection that stared back was no longer the dreamer. It was someone who had rebuilt herself from broken glass.
Satisfied, she picked up her phone and files from the table, squared her shoulders, and stepped out of the room.
The marble staircase wound down gracefully, its polished surface catching the morning light. She descended slowly, the echo of her heels tapping rhythmically against each step, announcing her presence before she even reached the living room.
When she entered, the atmosphere shifted — not dramatically, but enough for the occupants to notice.
On the sofa sat a man and a woman, perhaps visitors, perhaps acquaintances. Their conversation halted as their eyes turned to her.
She inclined her head politely. "Good morning."
The woman, elegant in a pastel saree, smiled softly. "Good morning, dear. You look lovely today."
"Thank you," Isha replied, her tone polite but distant.
The man, perhaps in his mid or late thirties-aged with a warm face and silver streaks at his temples, offered a nod. "It's been a while since we saw you downstairs this early."
A faint curve touched her lips — not quite a smile, not quite indifference. "Work waits for no one."
They chuckled softly, and she lowered herself gracefully onto the single-seater armchair opposite them. For a moment, the air was filled with the soft clinking of cups from the tray on the center table, the rustle of newspapers, the muted hum of morning life in the house.
She sat upright, her back straight, her eyes calm yet guarded. She joined the conversation only when needed, speaking with measured words.
The heavy wooden chair creaked softly as she lowered herself onto it, folding her hands on the polished table for a moment. The vast room, with its warm cream walls and tall windows that spilled the golden Italian light across the floor, seemed to hold its breath around her. She sat in silence, trying not to let the weight of her own thoughts slip across her face.
And then — the sound of hurried little footsteps.
But then —
The sound of small footsteps pattering on marble reached them.
She turned her head just as the care taker returned, holding the tiny hand of a toddler. A boy, no more than four, with unruly dark hair and wide, curious eyes that glimmered like mischief itself. He broke into a giggle as he ran forward, clutching a small wooden toy in his fist.
The pitter-patter grew louder, uneven but determined, followed by a bubbling giggle. Before she could fully turn, a tiny figure appeared — a toddler, his cheeks flushed pink from running, his small fists clutching two brightly colored blocks that didn't quite fit together. His dark curls bounced with every step, his wide eyes fixed on her as though he had been searching the whole world just to find her.
"Mamma!" the boy squealed, though the word was less about who she was and more about the warmth he saw in her. He flung himself forward, the blocks slipping from his hands and clattering onto the floor.
"Slow down, Riyan!" the woman scolded gently, though the smile on her lips betrayed no real anger.
The little boy stopped in front of the man and woman, looking at them before his gaze found the young girl. His head tilted, studying her, as if trying to place her in his small world.
"Say good morning," the woman coaxed sweetly, patting the child's back.
The toddler, shy at first, mumbled, "Good mornin'."
Isha's lips softened ever so slightly. "Good morning," she answered, her voice low but touched with a warmth that hadn't been there moments before.
Her breath caught. For a second, she just stared — as though time itself had played a cruel trick. Then, without thinking, she bent down, scooped him up into her arms, and pressed him tightly against her chest.
"Oh, dolcezza…" she whispered, the word trembling on her lips like it had lived there all along. She buried her face in his curls, inhaling that soft scent only children carry — milk, warmth, sunshine. Her arms tightened as if she feared he might vanish if she loosened her grip.
The toddler squealed with laughter, patting her cheeks with his tiny palms. "Mamma, mamma!" he repeated, louder now, delighted at the reaction he got.
She pulled back just enough to see his face. His nose was small and button-like, his lips curled into the most mischievous grin, his eyes large and sparkling as though they held entire galaxies. She traced her finger across his cheek, her voice dropping to that sing-song tone reserved only for little ones.
"Who gave you permission to be so cute, hmm? Tell me, piccolo… who said you could steal my heart like this?"
The boy giggled again, grabbing a strand of her hair and tugging gently. She didn't even mind — instead, she leaned in and smothered his face with quick kisses. One on his forehead, one on his cheek, another on the tip of his nose. Each peal of his laughter filled the room like music, chasing away every shadow in her heart for that fleeting moment.
From across the table, the couple watched in silence. The man leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, but there was no sternness in his gaze — only a quiet, contemplative warmth. The woman beside him rested her chin in her palm, her eyes shining as she took in the sight before her.
Neither spoke. They didn't need to. The way the girl cradled the child as if he were her own told them enough. There was no hesitation, no distance, no awkwardness. Just pure, instinctive love.
"Again! Again!" the toddler demanded suddenly, bouncing in her lap.
She laughed — a real laugh, unguarded and bright, as she lifted him high into the air and then swooped him back down, pressing another kiss onto his cheek. "You're going to make me tired, little prince. Is that your plan? To defeat me with your giggles?"
The boy's shrieks of joy answered for him. He wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face against her shoulder, his tiny body trembling with excitement. She swayed gently, rocking him as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
The woman across the table finally let out a soft sigh. "Look at them," she murmured under her breath, almost to herself.
The man nodded once, his jaw tightening just slightly as though holding back words he didn't wish to reveal. His gaze softened, though, when the girl leaned down and whispered something into the boy's ear that made him laugh so hard he nearly fell out of her lap.
She steadied him quickly, pressing her forehead against his. "You, young man, are trouble," she whispered playfully. "But you are my trouble now."
The boy answered by planting the sloppiest kiss on her cheek, leaving her stunned for only a heartbeat before she burst into laughter again, clutching him close.
For the couple watching, it was like witnessing a piece of fate unfold in front of them — something that could not be explained, only felt. They exchanged a look, quiet and knowing, before turning back to watch her and the boy again.
And she… she forgot, just for that moment, the scars of her past, the heaviness of her heart, the walls she had built around herself. With the child in her arms, she wasn't the woman hardened by betrayal or distance. She was simply someone who had love to give — endless, overflowing, untamed.
For a second, something flickered in her eyes — a softness, a shadow of the girl she once had been. But then it vanished, swallowed again by the calm steel she wore like a second skin.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap, tilting her head slightly as she watched the boy climb clumsily onto the sofa beside the woman.
And just like that, silence fell again. Not uncomfortable — but watchful.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.
The sound of footsteps echoed lightly across the marble floor, steady and unhurried, as though the person walking carried neither fear nor doubt. The young girl, who had been quietly stacking two wooden blocks one over the other on the low coffee table, paused. Her small hands trembled ever so slightly as the figure stepped into the living room.
It was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding yet strangely comforting. The afternoon light framed him from behind, casting a soft golden outline around his figure. He did not rush to speak; he simply stood for a breath, observing the girl as though he wanted to memorize the very way she sat there, lost between her silence and her game.
Then, at last, his voice cut through the stillness, deep but gentle.
"How are you, little one? Are you lying to yourself again?" His lips curved in the faintest of smiles, but his eyes betrayed concern. "Are you okay? Is everything sorted now?"
The girl blinked, startled. For a moment, she did not answer, as if her throat had locked itself. But then, as she turned to properly look at him, something inside her shifted. Recognition bloomed, washing away her stiffness. A smile — radiant, rare, unguarded — unfolded across her face.
"Luka…" she whispered his name, almost like a secret, before saying louder, "Yeah… I'm fine."
Her voice was soft but sure, and the relief in her tone was undeniable. She leaned back slightly, the wooden blocks forgotten. "How are you? The mission went well, didn't it?"
He exhaled, a quiet chuckle slipping through as if to ease her. "The mission went well," he confirmed, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. "I told you it would, didn't I?"
The girl tilted her head, smiling wider. "You always say that," she teased lightly, "but I only believe it when I see you back here… safe."
From where they sat — the man and woman who had been quietly watching until now — came soft voices. The woman, elegant and composed, leaned forward slightly.
"So how are you Luka? " she asked, her tone carrying curiosity laced with relief. "You must be tired. The journey… the mission… was it really all fine?"
The man beside her added, in a deeper voice, "Yes, Luka. Everything is in order now?"
Luka straightened his shoulders, offering them both a polite nod. "Yes brother, everything is in order. I'm fine. And thank you… for asking."
But even as he spoke to them, his eyes drifted back to the girl, as though she was the only anchor that mattered in the room.
The girl, noticing his gaze, lowered hers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. And Luka, as if unable to help himself, whispered softly, barely audible, her name.
The woman caught it, her brow lifting slightly at the tenderness in his tone.
The silence after that was brief, interrupted by the shuffle of feet at the doorway. A personale — dressed crisply in white uniform — entered with a polite bow. He carried a tray balanced perfectly with glassess, a polished jug, and a plate of delicacies.
"Sir, Madam," the hotelier announced, his tone professional yet warm. "Shall I serve juice and arrange the table for you?"
The question lingered in the air, giving everyone a moment to breathe again, though the girl's heart still beat a little too fast, her smile refusing to fade.
The personale bowed again, setting the tray neatly on the table. The steam of freshly brewed tea curled into the air, softening the atmosphere of the room. Luka glanced at it absently, though his attention never really left the girl.
She shifted on the couch, still smiling, still holding that unspoken relief in her chest. Then, as though realizing something, she straightened. "I was so lost… I didn't even ask—how are you, Luka? Did you eat properly this time, or…" She trailed off, raising one eyebrow knowingly.
Luka chuckled, running a hand through his hair in mock defeat. "Caught me. No, I didn't eat properly." His eyes glimmered mischievously before softening. "But I'm here now. And I'll eat if you sit with me."
The girl rolled her eyes, but her cheeks glowed with a blush she couldn't hide.
The woman sitting on the armchair across from them shook her head with a fond smile. "Luka, you never change." She leaned forward, her graceful sari pleats rustling softly as she poured tea into cups. "Always stubborn, always teasing… and yet…" her eyes darted knowingly toward the girl, "…always protective."
The girl laughed lightly, but Luka only tilted his chin, unbothered. "And you, Meher sister in law, are always watching too closely."
The name lingered in the air — Meher, the woman who carried herself with quiet elegance, whose smile could soften any harsh word.
The man beside her reached for a cup, his voice rich and steady as he finally spoke, "Well, she's not wrong. You do treat her differently, Luka."
The girl looked up quickly, her brows raised. "Alessandro" she protested, half laughing, half embarrassed.
But Alessandro only chuckled, his laughter deep and warm. "What? Did I say something untrue?" He gave Luka a pointed glance, one only men in a family could share, teasing yet affectionate.
Luka smirked, but instead of answering, he bent slightly and said, in a voice meant only for the girl, "Alina…"
Her name left his lips like a prayer, soft and reverent. The girl stilled, her heart skipping, but she didn't look away. Her smile trembled into something quieter, something deeper.
Meher, watching the exchange, sighed dramatically, though her eyes twinkled. "This house… sometimes I wonder if it runs on tea, or on the way you all make each other blush."
That was when a sudden patter of small feet broke the moment.
A child's giggle filled the air, His cheeks were flushed with excitement as he barreled straight toward Meher
"Mumma!" the boy squealed, climbing onto her lap.
Meher gathered him easily, kissing the top of his head. "Careful, Riyan. You'll trip."
Riyan only giggled louder, before peeking curiously at Luka and then at Aline. His big eyes blinked innocently. "Why are you both smiling so much?"
The whole room erupted into laughter, the kind that loosened every knot in the chest.
Alessandro reached over to ruffle his son's hair. "Because, Riyan, sometimes grown-ups forget how to talk, so they smile instead."
Luka leaned back, letting out a rare, unguarded laugh. Aline's face softened, her earlier dream still haunting her somewhere in the back of her mind, but in this moment, surrounded by Luka, Meher, Alessandro, and little Riyan, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time—
home.
The soft chime of cutlery being arranged carried through the wide arched corridor as the family made their way toward the breakfast hall. The morning light spilled in golden sheets across the marble floor, falling through tall windows framed with flowing ivory curtains. The aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted tomatoes, and the familiar bitterness of strong Italian coffee lingered in the air, weaving warmth around the room before a single ord was spoken.
The large oak dining table stood in the center, polished to a mirror sheen, its surface already laid with bowls of olives, platters of cheese, plates of delicate pastries, and steaming trays of frittata. A jug of fresh orange juice caught the sunlight, glowing amber like liquid fire.
Alessandro, with his usual authoritative calm, walked ahead and pulled a chair for Meher, who gave him a mock frown and teased, "You don't have to act the gentleman every single morning, Alex."
He smiled faintly, a small curve that never failed to soften his stern features. "Some habits refuse to leave me, cara mia."
Meher shook her head, but her eyes gleamed with affection. She sat down gracefully, adjusting the light scarf around her shoulders.
Alina followed behind them, quiet for a moment, her steps unhurried but steady. She looked at the table, at the space that felt more like home than any palace ever could. Luka trailed after her, whistling under his breath as he pulled out his chair and stretched.
"Finally," he muttered with a grin, "my stomach has been screaming since sunrise."
"Your stomach screams every two hours, Luka," Alina said, a small laugh escaping her lips before she caught herself. The sound was rare, almost unfamiliar even to her, yet it lingered in the air like a bell.
Luka's grin widened, "Ah, but you still care enough to notice. That means something."
Alexandro gave him a warning glance, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed his amusement. "Eat first, talk later."
At that moment, Riyan came running in, his little feet padding quickly across the floor, clutching two colorful blocks in his small fists. "Mamma! Look! I builded a tower!" he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with excitement. He stopped beside Alina's chair, thrusting the blocks toward her.
Alina's eyes softened instantly. She bent down, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and took the blocks with both hands. "A tower?" she whispered with exaggerated wonder. "But this… this looks like a castle." She tapped the top block lightly. "And do you know who lives in castles?"
Riyan's wide eyes sparkled. "Princes and princesses?"
She nodded, her smile faint but real. "Yes. And maybe even brave little boys who build them."
Riyan giggled, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Then I'm the bravest."
"You already are," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his dark curls before lifting him gently onto the chair beside her.
Meher watched the scene with quiet pride. "You've always had a way with him, Alina. He listens to you more than to me sometimes."
Alina smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on the boy. "Children… they remind us of innocence. Something we shouldn't lose, even if life tries to take it away."
The words hung in the air for a moment — heavier than anyone expected. Alessandro's gaze flickered toward her, sharp and searching, but he didn't speak. He simply reached for the basket of bread and pushed it toward her.
"Eat," he said softly. "You talk too wisely for someone who has yet to finish her breakfast."
Luka laughed under his breath, trying to lift the weight of the moment. He leaned forward, picking up a pastry. "Speaking of breakfast… do you know what she did last time? She scolded me like a teacher because I forgot to sign some documents."
Alina rolled her eyes, though her lips curved faintly. "You didn't just forget. You threw them aside to play with your friends. Don't make it sound noble."
"Ah, she remembers too much," Luka groaned, tossing a grape into his mouth. "Tell me, brother, how do you manage to live under the same roof with such sharp memory?"
Alessandro didn't look up from his plate. "By not arguing with her. Something you should learn."
The table erupted in laughter, even Riyan giggling though he didn't fully understand the joke.
Alina reached for the jug of juice and poured some into Riyan's cup. The child lifted it clumsily with both hands, spilling a little on the tablecloth. She quickly steadied the cup for him, brushing her thumb across his tiny knuckles. "Slowly, piccolo," she murmured. "No rush."
Meher, watching the three of them together — Alina, Luka, and Riyan — shook her head fondly. "Sometimes I feel as though this house was always meant to have you in it."
Alina's hand froze briefly at the words, but she masked it with a sip of water. Her eyes lowered, hiding the storm that briefly flickered inside. "Perhaps," she said quietly. "Or perhaps I was only passing through, and the house is kind enough to let me stay."
Silence stretched again, soft but noticeable. Alessandro's gaze lingered on her, but he didn't question further. Instead, he broke the moment by lifting his glass.
"To mornings like these," he said firmly, looking at each of them. "May they never change."
Everyone raised their cups in quiet agreement, even little Riyan clinking his juice against Luka's coffee mug.
The warmth of laughter, the scent of fresh bread, the soft rhythm of conversation filled the room, making it feel less like just a breakfast and more like a memory they would all carry.
Yet somewhere in the back of Alina's mind, a voice whispered — memories of another home, another family, another table where her name had been called with love. She pushed it down, smiling faintly as Riyan tugged at her sleeve for another story about castles.
And so the morning unfolded — simple, heartwarming, and quietly layered with the unspoken truths that bound them together.
The plates were almost cleared, the laughter of the toddler still echoing faintly as the house began to settle into its usual rhythm. The golden warmth of breakfast had left its imprint on the room, but Alina's sharp eyes had already shifted to the sleek watch circling her wrist. The smile that had touched her lips moments ago softened away, replaced by the faintest trace of steel.
She pushed her chair back, the scrape of the legs against the marble sounding final. "I need to go," she said, her tone calm but decisive. "The meetings have piled up. I just received word from my secretary—one begins at eleven. I should be there early to prepare."
Alessandro, sitting with his arms stretched lazily along the back of his chair, tilted his head in quiet acknowledgment. Meher gave her a small nod, her expression reflecting both pride and a silent understanding of the weight Alina carried now.
Before the silence grew too long, Luka's voice broke in, smooth and certain. "I'll drop you."
Alina glanced at him, one brow raised slightly. He was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. "You don't have to," she said, though there was no resistance in her tone, just the reflex of someone used to walking alone.
"I know," he answered easily, slipping into his coat. "But I've got business in the same district. Might as well."
She exhaled softly, the ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. "Fine."
Little Riyan, perched on Meher's lap now, clapped his little hands as if in protest. "No, no, stay!" he demanded in his tiny voice, his curls bouncing as he tried to reach for Elena.
She bent down swiftly, pressing a kiss against his cheek, whispering something that made him giggle before turning back to Alessandro and Meher. "I'll be back later. Don't wait for me."
With a final nod, she walked out, Luca falling into step beside her. The black car waiting in the driveway gleamed under the morning sun, sleek and silent as though it were made for them.
The door shut behind them with a muted thump, sealing them into the cool, leather-scented air. The engine purred to life, and as the city streets began to slip past, their voices shifted naturally into the language of business—the one both of them carried like second skin.
"So," Alina began, crossing her legs neatly, her gaze fixed on the passing blur outside the window. "The shipment from Rotterdam. Did it clear?"
Luka's jaw tightened slightly, his hands steady on the wheel. "Cleared, yes. But there was noise."
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp as glass. "Noise?"
He nodded once. "A small crew tried to interfere at the docks. Nothing big. My men handled it, but it raises questions. Someone's watching."
"Someone always is." Her tone was cool, almost dismissive, but her fingers drummed lightly against her knee—a quiet rhythm that betrayed her mind already moving three steps ahead. "Keep the docks clean. I don't want delays."
Luka smirked faintly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "You're colder in the car than you are at the table."
"And you're more talkative here than you are in meetings," she shot back, her lips curving slightly, though her gaze never softened.
The conversation ebbed and flowed like that—part strategy, part teasing, laced with the undercurrent of trust that came only from walking through fire together. They spoke of shipments, of rival names whispered in the alleys, of money that moved faster than shadows, of alliances sealed and enemies who hadn't yet learned caution.
By the time the car pulled into the long driveway of her company's headquarters, Aline had shifted fully into her role—the softness of the morning tucked away, leaving only the sharp lines of the woman who built her empire from the ashes.
The building rose in front of them, all glass and steel, its name etched boldly across the entrance in sleek black letters. A name that carried weight across borders, whispered in boardrooms and on streets alike.
Luka cut the engine, leaning back slightly. "You'll be fine?"
She glanced at him, one hand already on the door. "When am I not?"
He gave her a look, unreadable but steady. "Don't answer that. Just… don't burn the place down before lunch."
For the first time that morning, she laughed softly, shaking her head as she stepped out. The air outside was cooler, sharper, the kind that carried both promise and danger. Straightening her coat, she walked towards the entrance, each step deliberate, each movement a reminder—this was her world now.
The sleek black car purred to a stop in front of the towering glass building. The door opened, and Alina stepped out, the click of her heels sharp against the marble pavement.
Her eyes lifted, steady and unwavering, to the name etched in bold silver across the glass façade:
Domina Global.
Her empire.
Her war.
Her crown.
Her fire.
Her proof.
She let her gaze linger for a moment, the corner of her lips tilting in a quiet, unreadable smile. Every stone, every beam of steel reflected the years she had carved herself out of shadows and into power.
For a moment, her lips curved into the faintest smile—cold, victorious, knowing. Every floor of that skyscraper was a monument to her survival, every light a reminder of battles she had won in silence.
She adjusted the lapel of her blazer, the movement precise, almost ceremonial, before she began her walk toward the entrance. Each step was measured, powerful, echoing authority that no one dared challenge.
Inside, heads turned. Conversations faltered. A hush rippled through the lobby, not out of fear but reverence.
Alina didn't acknowledge them. She didn't need to.
Alina walked inside not just like the owner of the empire, but like the queen she had become—untouched, unshaken, and undeniable.
She is Domina—and this is her world.
The glass doors of Domina Global parted smoothly as Alina walked in. The lobby was alive with activity—employees rushing across the polished marble floors, assistants juggling files, the low murmur of phones ringing, the faint scent of roasted coffee drifting from the café tucked to the side.
And yet, the moment she entered, the energy shifted. Conversations thinned, footsteps slowed. Heads turned discreetly, but no one dared stare for too long. It wasn't fear—no, Alina didn't lead through terror. It was something sharper, heavier, the kind of respect earned not by titles but by victories.
Her heels clicked against the floor, steady and unhurried. A young employee near the reception stumbled with a pile of files, his hands shaking as the papers slid dangerously. Alina's gaze fell on him—calm, unreadable. She didn't scold, didn't rush to help, didn't even raise her voice. She simply looked. And in that look, the boy gathered every ounce of composure, bent, and picked up the files neatly.
"Alina ma'am," one of the senior managers hurried forward with a polite bow of his head. "Good morning."
Her eyes shifted briefly, cool and acknowledging. "Morning," she replied, her voice smooth, low, carrying no warmth yet no disdain. Just enough to remind them she had noticed, but nothing more.
Without breaking stride, she moved toward the private elevator tucked behind the main lobby. Unlike the other elevators, this one gleamed with blackened steel and a golden insignia at the center: CEO. The guard at its side immediately straightened and pressed the button, bowing slightly as the doors slid open.
Alina stepped inside, her reflection multiplying in the mirrored walls. She pressed the top floor button herself—an unspoken message that while she commanded everything here, she still controlled her own ascents.
When the elevator doors opened, the floor spread wide in front of her. The nameplate on frosted glass, bold and unforgiving, read:
CEO – Domina Global.
She entered.
Her office was a kingdom in itself—floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunlight over sleek furniture, a massive black oak desk standing like an altar, and shelves lined with books and documents that spoke of wars fought in boardrooms rather than streets. A single vase with blue tulips stood by the corner, the only softness in an otherwise severe room.
She placed her handbag on the desk, slid out her chair, and lowered herself into it. The leather creaked softly beneath her weight. For a moment, she just sat there, letting the silence settle. She belonged here—this was her throne.
Minutes later, a soft knock came at the door.
"Come in," Alina said, her voice carrying across the room like silk pulled taut.
Her secretary, Nadia, a woman in her mid twenties with neatly tied hair, stepped inside, holding a slim file. She walked briskly, but her steps held reverence.
"Ma'am, your 11 a.m. meeting is confirmed. The board members are already being briefed," she said, placing the file on Alina's desk. "This is the file."
Alina opened it, her eyes scanning the pages. Numbers, figures, shipment updates, a minor dispute flagged by the logistics head. Her expression didn't change. She closed the file with a quiet snap.
"Fine," she said. Then, without lifting her eyes, "Black coffee. Strong."
The secretary, Nadia, nodded. "Right away, ma'am." She left, silent as she came.
Alina leaned back in her chair, her gaze sliding to the window where the city pulsed beneath her. The empire stretched out far and wide, but she knew better than anyone—it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
The door clicked open again, and the coffee was placed in front of her. Black, steaming, bitter. She picked it up, took one sip, and set it down.
"Good," she murmured, her voice almost inaudible. Then, louder, "You can leave."
"Yes, ma'am."
The office returned to silence once more. Alina let the coffee warm her hands as she stared at the clock. The second hand moved, relentless. The time for thought was over.
At precisely 10:58, she rose from her chair. Smooth, deliberate movements—adjusting her blazer, fixing the cuffs, sliding her phone into her pocket. She was ready.
When she stepped out, two junior assistants waiting near the corridor immediately straightened. One opened the glass doors to the conference wing, the other bowed slightly as she passed.
The conference room was a long stretch of glass, steel, and quiet tension. The board members sat in perfect symmetry around the table, their files open, pens aligned, laptops glowing faintly. Yet no one dared fidget. The weight of expectation pressed over them the moment the CEO's heels clicked against the polished floor.
The heavy doors to the conference room opened, revealing the long polished table, the digital screens already glowing with presentations, and rows of men and women waiting in suits.
Alina walked in with that same composure she carried through the lobby. Not hurried, not lazy—simply inevitable. A queen in her own domain. She lowered herself into the head chair, spine straight, her calm gaze settling on the faces before her.
The moment Alina entered, the quiet hum of side conversations died instantly. All eyes turned.
She walked to the head of the table—her seat, her place. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Each step echoing authority.
"Good morning," she said, her tone smooth, flat, leaving no space for pleasantries.
A murmur of "Good morning, ma'am" rolled across the room.
Alina placed her file neatly in front of her, rested her palms against the polished wood, and allowed her gaze to sweep over the room. Calm. Cold. Absolute.
Her fingers brushed against the file placed in front of her. She didn't open it immediately. Instead, she let her silence stretch, her eyes slowly traveling from one manager to another, making them feel the weight of her presence. Only when the quiet grew taut did she finally speak.
"Shall we begin?" she asked.
It wasn't a question.
It was a command.
"Let's get started. Logistics update first."
One of the men—mid-forties, glasses slightly slipping down his nose—cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am. The Singapore shipment cleared customs yesterday evening. However…" He faltered, pushing up his glasses. "However, the Dubai consignment faced a delay. Port authorities are asking for additional paperwork—"
"Delay?" Alina's voice cut cleanly, calm but slicing. She didn't raise her tone; she didn't need to.
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, ma'am. Two days, at least. Our team is already—"
Alina raised her hand slightly, and he fell silent instantly. She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "We do not tolerate delays." Her words were measured, almost quiet. Yet they struck harder than any shout.
A younger executive rushed to add, "We've already contacted our Dubai office. They're working with legal to—"
"Working is not enough," Aline said, tilting her head slightly. "Results, gentlemen. That's what we measure."
The room fell silent again. The man with the glasses looked down at his notes, shame burning across his face. Alive let it linger for a moment, then shifted, deliberately calm.
"Here's what will happen," she continued, voice steady as stone. "By tonight, I want a direct update from Dubai's port authority on my desk. If paperwork is missing, replace it. If palms need to be greased…" Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper. "…make sure it is done cleanly. No noise. No excuses."
"Yes, ma'am," the logistics head stammered, already scribbling notes.
She moved on as if nothing had happened. "Finance. How's the quarterly projection?"
The CFO, a woman with clipped words and sharp eyes, straightened. "On track, ma'am. Domina Global crossed last quarter's margins by 3.2%. The new European expansion looks promising. If all goes according to plan, we can close the year at a 15% growth margin."
Alina nodded slightly. "Acceptable. But not impressive. Push to seventeen."
The CFO hesitated. "Seventeen may stretch—"
"Stretch," Alina interrupted softly, eyes locking on hers. "That's where growth lives. Seventeen."
The CFO swallowed, then gave a crisp nod. "Understood, ma'am."
Aline sipped her black coffee, the steam rising in thin curls. Not once did she break her composure. Her stillness was unnerving—every glance, every word carried precision.
Next, the marketing director leaned forward, almost eager. "Ma'am, we've drafted a new campaign for the European markets. We believe it will resonate strongly—luxury, power, heritage…" He slid the mock-ups across the table.
Alina didn't touch them. She simply watched him, her silence pressing against his nerves. Finally, she asked, "And what makes this different from every other firm that sells the illusion of luxury?"
The man blinked, caught. "Well, we… we emphasize global roots. Diversity—"
"Diversity is not a selling point," Alina said coolly. "It's noise. Power sells. Domina Global is not built on softness—it is built on fire." She finally opened the mock-up, flipping through with slow, deliberate movements. Her lips curved faintly. "This is weak. I want something that burns into memory. When they see our name, they must feel it."
The director paled. "Yes, ma'am. We'll revise immediately."
Alina placed the mock-up down and leaned forward slightly, her hands folding on the table. "Remember this—Domina Global does not follow trends. We dictate them."
No one dared argue.
For the next hour, the meeting rolled on—reports, projections, future expansions. Each time someone hesitated, fumbled, or tried to justify, Alina cut them down with calm, pointed words. She never shouted, never raised her hand. She didn't need to. Her silence, her unflinching gaze, her subtle shifts of tone did more damage than rage ever could.
And yet, beneath that cold precision, there was no cruelty. She listened, she directed, she corrected. It wasn't domination for its own sake—it was control with purpose. Every man and woman in that room knew she demanded excellence because she embodied it.
By the end, when the final file closed and the assistants began gathering their notes, Alina stood smoothly, her chair gliding back without a sound. She adjusted her blazer, glanced once around the room, and said in that same unshaken tone,
"You have your orders. Deliver."
The room echoed with a chorus of "Yes, ma'am."
Without another word, Alina left, her heels striking the polished floor. Behind her, the board members exhaled—only when she was gone, as if air itself had returned to the room.
Nadia's hands were bound behind her back, her lips taped, sweat on her forehead despite the freezing temperature inside the room.
The soft hum of a server buzzed in the corner. Alina stood beside a desk — composed, in control. A small silver laptop glowed with evidence: bank transactions, IP addresses, the exact folder she copied, the rival company's login.
She clicked it shut.
"You know, Nadia," she said quietly, removing the tape from the woman's mouth with a swift pull, "you had potential. You were quick, quiet, and smart. But then you got greedy."
Nadia gasped for breath. "Alina, I— I didn't mean to—"
"Stop." Alina's voice was cold. Measured. "Don't insult me with lies. You transferred classified files from my encrypted drive to a third-party cloud server. Then delete your tracks like a coward."
She walked behind Nadia, slowly. Heels clicking on the polished floor.
"But I don't run a company." She leaned in. "I run an empire. You think I don't monitor loyalty?"
She stepped back, pulled open a drawer, and lifted a thin wire whip, braided steel with a velvet handle.
"You're lucky," she said, running her fingers along it. "If this was Luka... they'd have handled you very differently."
"Alina, please—don't do this—I made a mistake—"
"No," Alina cut her off. "You made a choice. And choices have consequences."
She turned on a recording device.
"Confess," she commanded.
"What?"
"Say it. On record."
"I—I stole internal data," Nadia stammered. "I sold it to Vysotsky Corp... for money. I didn't think you'd find out."
Alina smiled.
"You're right. You didn't think."
With terrifying precision, she pulled a chair closer and sat down across from her, the whip resting on her lap.
"You will pay for every file you stole. One by one."
Nadia's eyes widened. "You can't—"
Alina's voice cut like a blade.
"I can. I already am."
The first lash was not to hurt — but to mark.
The second was sharper.
The third... made her scream.
But Alina didn't flinch.
Her face remained blank. Her mind is already miles ahead, thinking of how to use Nadia's confession to dismantle Vysotsky Corp next.
"You think I'm cruel?" she whispered after a long silence.
"I'm not."
"I'm what this world made me."
And as she stood, tossing the whip onto the floor, she whispered one last thing before leaving Nadia alone in the cold room:
"This is what betrayal feels like."
The chill of the interrogation room was artificial, deliberately tuned to unsettle the body and strip away resistance. The walls were a dull shade of steel-gray, sterile yet suffocating, humming faintly from the vents above. A small red camera blinked from the corner, its lens wide open, documenting every breath, every sound, every betrayal.
Nadia's wrists were tied with a clean efficiency that betrayed military precision. She squirmed against the restraints, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in panic. Her once pristine secretary's blouse was wrinkled, her bun loosened, strands of hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead. She had served Alina for three years. She had seen her in power suits, in quiet solitude, in calculated fury during meetings. She had bowed her head with respect, taken notes, fetched coffee.
But never — never — had she seen Alina like this.
Alina — to the world, Aline to the chosen few — stood by the desk, calm as if she were about to deliver a quarterly report. The glow of the silver laptop illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows along her cheekbones. On the screen were Nadia's sins — each file, each transfer, each keystroke logged and traced. The evidence was irrefutable.
She clicked the lid shut. The sound was final, like the slam of a coffin lid.
"You know, Nadia," her voice slid through the cold air, low and deliberate, "I almost liked you."
Her tone was not angry. It was worse — calm. Measured.
"You were efficient. Obedient. You learned quickly. I thought you understood what loyalty meant." She walked slowly around the room, heels echoing. "But instead of growing with me, you chose to betray me. And for what? A few zeros in a bank account?"
Nadia shook her head desperately, her taped lips trying to form words. Her eyes brimmed with terror.
Alina crouched before her, eyes level. With one swift motion, she ripped the tape off Nadia's mouth.
Nadia coughed, gasping for air. "Alina, please, I didn't mean to— I thought—"
"Stop." The word cracked like glass.
Alina stood again, circling. "Do not waste my time with weak excuses. You transferred classified intelligence from my encrypted drives. To Vysotsky Corp." She paused, letting the name linger in the air like poison. "And you actually thought I wouldn't know?"
She stopped behind Nadia, leaned close, her whisper almost brushing the woman's ear.
"I don't run a company. I run an empire. Empires aren't toppled by enemies, Nadia. They are toppled by traitors within."
A drawer slid open, the sound sharp in the silent room. Alina's fingers wrapped around a whip — thin, braided steel, the handle wrapped in black velvet. It gleamed under the sterile lights. She dragged her fingers along its length, testing the weight, her expression unreadable.
"You're fortunate Luka isn't here," she murmured, still calm, almost conversational. "He doesn't have my patience."
Nadia sobbed. "Alina, please! It was one mistake. I needed money. My brother—he's sick—I just—"
"Enough."
The word was quieter this time, but it cut deeper.
"You didn't make a mistake. You made a choice. And choices… have consequences."
She pulled out a small recorder, its red light flickering alive. She placed it on the desk with a soft click.
"Confess."
Nadia blinked. "W-what?"
"Say it." Alina's tone brooked no argument. "On record. Every detail."
Her lips trembled. "I… I stole data from Domina Global's internal servers. I sent it to Vysotsky Corp. They paid me. I thought… I thought no one would ever find out."
Alina's lips curved — not into a smile, but something colder.
"You're right. You didn't think."
She pulled a chair forward, sat gracefully, and placed the whip on her lap. Her movements were deliberate, elegant, almost ritualistic.
"You will pay for every file you stole. One by one."
Nadia's breath hitched. "You— you can't—"
Alina tilted her head, gaze flat. "I can. I already am."
The first lash wasn't cruel — it was symbolic. A whisper of steel across skin, a reminder of what power feels like.
The second bit sharper, tearing through fabric, biting into flesh.
The third — Nadia's scream shattered the sterile silence, bouncing off the steel walls.
Alina didn't flinch. Not once.
Her eyes were detached, her posture unchanged, her face serene. Each strike wasn't about rage. It was control, discipline, justice.
After the final lash, the whip slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the floor. She stood, smoothing the wrinkle from her blazer, unbothered, as if she had just finished signing a contract.
"You think I'm cruel?" she whispered, her voice soft enough to be almost tender.
Nadia sobbed, trembling, words lost.
"I'm not cruel. I am what this world made me."
She leaned down one final time, her lips near Nadia's ear.
"And this," she whispered, her voice like ice over broken glass, "is what betrayal feels like."
Without another glance, Aline turned and left, the steel door shutting with a heavy finality.
The hum of the servers continued. The camera blinked red. Nadia's sobs echoed into the cold.
And Aline — the queen, the empire — was already thinking three moves ahead, about how she would use this confession to bring Vysotsky Corp to its knees.
The golden rays of late afternoon streamed into Elena's cabin, painting the sleek glass table in warm hues. Her pen moved with elegant precision across documents — mergers, exports, shipments waiting at the docks of Naples. Domina Global thrived under her command; even silence bowed to her authority. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the city far below.
Her phone buzzed. A name appeared on the screen: Luka.
She answered, her voice calm, as if she had been expecting him.
"Yes, Luka?"
On the other end, Luka's tone carried urgency, but also warmth.
"Aline, tonight is important. There's a gala at the Villa d'Oro. The families, the Capos, the investors — they'll all be there. You can't miss it. Being the Queen of Mafia world you don't just build an empire behind walls. You have to show them who you are."
Aline leaned back in her chair, twirling the pen between her fingers, her gaze fixed on the skyline.
"I thought appearances were your specialty, Luka."
A soft chuckle echoed. "Maybe. But tonight isn't about appearances. It's about presence. You know as well as I do — when a queen walks in, the world notices. And brother and sister in law will be there. They want you present, not hidden in shadows."
She was silent for a moment, her mind racing between identities. Aline to her corporate empire. Domina to the mafia world. Two names, one woman. One seen, one feared.
At last, her voice lowered, almost a whisper, yet heavy with finality.
"Fine. I'll be there. As Aline."
"Good," Luka said softly. "That's the only name they should ever remember."
When the call ended, Aline closed her files, her lips pressing into a thin line. She hated being watched. She hated giving them a face to memorize. But she also knew Luka was right — power hidden is power questioned.
By nightfall, she was back home.
The grand villa was already alive with anticipation. Soft light spilled from chandeliers, casting gold against marble floors. The faint murmur of conversation floated from the living room where Alessandro, Meher, and Luka waited. A fire crackled gently, though the air was warm, as if it too was preparing for her entrance.
Aline appeared at the top of the stairs. The moment she descended, silence filled the hall.
She wore a gown the color of midnight — a black silk that shimmered with every step, hugging her form and flowing behind her like shadows in motion. The neckline dipped tastefully, the sleeves sheer, her hair swept up in an elegant twist, diamond pins catching the light. Around her throat lay a single black choker, understated yet commanding. She looked every inch the queen they had described — calm, cold, untouchable.
Alessandro rose from the sofa, his voice warm with a smile.
"There she is. The star of tonight."
Meher's eyes sparkled with admiration. "You'll put every woman in that gala to shame."
Aline's lips curved faintly — not into softness, but into confidence.
"I'm not going there to put anyone to shame. I'm going there to remind them why I sit on a throne."
Luka stood leaning against the doorway, his gaze steady, his tone softer than the others.
"And you'll succeed. As always."
The little boy, Riyan, peeked from behind Meher's dress, clapping his small hands.
"Pretty mamma!" he giggled, even though Aline wasn't his mother. But to him, she was the one who always scooped him into her arms, always kissed his cheeks, always smiled despite her cold exterior.
Her eyes softened only for him. She bent slightly, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Thank you, piccolo re," she whispered, calling him her little king.
Then she straightened, her eyes sharpening again, returning to steel.
Alessandro clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough admiration. The gala awaits. Shall we?"
Luka offered her his arm, a gesture of both respect and protection.
"Aline," he murmured, "tonight the world will see you. Not Aline the CEO. Not the girl in shadows. But the queen of Domina."
She slid her arm into his, her heels clicking against marble as they walked toward the waiting cars.
"And if the world sees me," she replied calmly, "the world will also learn to fear me."
The convoy of sleek black cars waited outside, engines purring like beasts restrained. Guards lined the driveway, bowing their heads as she passed. Every detail was orchestrated, every gesture rehearsed. But Domina — Aline — was not playing a role.
She was becoming it.
The queen, the empire, the untouchable.
And as the doors shut behind her, sealing her inside the armored car, she whispered to herself words no one else heard:
"Tonight, the world remembers me."
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