---
Aurora had been silent for 24 hours.
No texts. No calls. No likes on Elara's last message: "I'll call you when I wake up."
She never did.
Instead, Aurora booked a flight, chartered a private car, and arrived at Villa Nascita in a storm-black dress and heels that screamed revenge.
She stood outside the gates, sunglasses hiding the rage in her blood-red eyes.
The butler approached. "May I help you?"
Aurora smiled coldly. "Tell Miss Elara West that the storm she left behind has arrived."
---
Inside, Elara was seated beside a woman in her late twenties—Italian, model-tall, with mocha skin and a serpent's smirk.
"This house was my childhood dream," the woman was saying in a thick accent. "I used to run down that hall with your uncle's dogs. He raised me when no one else would."
Elara frowned. "You were close to him?"
The woman leaned in, her voice dropping. "Closer than blood. He said if he ever had a daughter, she should marry someone like me."
Elara blinked. "What's your name again?"
"Isadora."
Elara sipped her wine, heart racing. She hadn't felt safe since landing. But this woman made her feel seen. "You're beautiful," Elara blurted, cheeks reddening.
Isadora grinned. "So are you, ragazza mia."
---
The butler entered just as Isadora was touching Elara's hand.
"Miss West," he said. "You have a guest."
Elara stood, confused. "Who?"
Before the butler could respond, Aurora's heels clicked on the marble floor.
Isadora's face dropped.
Elara's eyes widened. "Aurora?!"
Aurora's gaze landed on the hands still touching. Her voice came out in a deadly calm whisper:
"Touch her again and I'll break your wrist."
Isadora stood. "Excuse me?"
"She's mine," Aurora growled. "Every inch of her. Inside and out. Don't make me show you how much."
Elara rushed forward. "You shouldn't be here—"
Aurora grabbed her by the chin, lifting her face. "You didn't call me. You didn't text. But I knew. I felt you slipping."
"Aurora—" she whispered, trembling.
"I don't do distance. I don't do silence." Her voice cracked. "I do you. Only you."
---
That night, the thunderstorm broke over Florence.
The villa creaked as wind whipped through the olive trees.
Elara stood in the hallway in a white nightdress, eyes wide. Aurora's room door was slightly ajar.
She knocked. "Are you okay?"
Aurora didn't answer.
Elara stepped in.
Aurora stood by the window, shirtless, back scarred, body taut.
Elara gasped. "What happened to your back?"
Aurora turned slowly, eyes glassy. "Don't ask questions you can't survive the answers to."
Elara stepped closer, placing a hand on her chest. "You look like a war you haven't recovered from."
"I am the war."
Aurora caught her wrist, pulling her flush against her chest. "You don't get to flirt with rich Italian girls in front of me and walk away untouched."
Elara whimpered, "She touched me. But I didn't touch her."
Aurora's voice dropped: "Then let me show you the difference."
She kissed Elara like she owned every bone in her body—slow, cruel, addictive.
But when Elara moaned into her mouth, Aurora pulled back.
"You're not ready," she whispered, stepping away.
Elara's lips trembled. "Why stop?"
Aurora stared at her, haunted. "Because for the first time… I want you to want me even after you see everything."
And with that, she walked out—leaving Elara burning in the cold.
The next morning, Elara received a letter delivered under her door.
No sender. No stamp.
She opened it.
> "Your mother lied. The West family doesn't just own the villa.
They own you.
Run before Aurora finds out the truth.
—I"
---
t say "Continue Chapter 8" and I'll drop Part 3 immediately.