The studio was silent except for the soft hum of the sewing machines and the scratch of pencil on paper. Outside, Milan's streets glimmered faintly under the city lights, but inside, Serena Moretti's world was a whirl of silk, sketches, and exhaustion.
She leaned over the drafting table, hands smudged with charcoal, eyes fixed on the latest design. The gala had been a triumph, a whirlwind of applause, camera flashes, and whispered speculation. Her collection had been noticed, lauded even—but the praise had come with a weight she hadn't anticipated.
Every sketch she drew now seemed under scrutiny. Every stitch felt like it had to earn its place in the world, as if the very air in her studio was judging her. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake the tension, but her heartbeat wouldn't slow.
The faintest noise made her pause.
A shadow, a movement in the corner of her eye. She froze, pencil hovering over paper. Perhaps it was a trick of the studio lights. Perhaps a reflection.
But then, a soft click—the sound of a door unlocking, though she hadn't heard anyone enter. Her pulse quickened.
"Who's there?" she called, voice steadier than she felt.
No answer.
Her hand moved instinctively toward her phone, resting on the edge of the table. Maybe it was a client, maybe an assistant who had stayed late. But instinct screamed at her that this was something different. Something deliberate.
Another click, closer this time. And then, the air shifted—the kind of shift that makes a person feel like the room has shrunk. Someone had entered, moving with calm, deliberate steps.
"Serena Moretti."
The voice was smooth, controlled, impossible to ignore. Her breath caught. She knew that voice. She did not need to turn to know who it belonged to.
"Mr. Leone," she said finally, masking her shock with as much steel as she could summon. "How… how did you get in here?"
He stepped from the shadows, perfectly composed, black suit impeccably tailored, expression unreadable. He carried no files, no overt sign of business—only the presence of someone used to command.
"I didn't 'get in,' Miss Moretti. I was invited," he said quietly. "By you. By your work."
She swallowed, uneasy. "I don't understand."
"You shouldn't." He moved closer, pacing slowly, scanning the sketches she had spread across the table. "It's simpler this way. I come to the talent I want, not the other way around."
Serena straightened, planting her hands firmly on the table. "Talent isn't owned, Mr. Leone."
He smiled faintly, a dangerous smile. "No. But influence can be."
Her stomach tightened. There was something in his eyes—a calculation, a weight—that suggested he knew more about her than anyone had a right to. The very idea made her skin prickle.
"I don't work for anyone," she said firmly. "I answer to myself. I don't need patrons, deals, or—" she hesitated, eyes narrowing "—strings attached."
Dante's gaze locked on hers. "Strings aren't always visible. Sometimes they're woven into opportunity itself."
He stopped pacing and leaned against the edge of her drafting table, not touching her, but close enough that the tension in the room became almost unbearable. He studied her designs, the lines, the patterns, as if deciphering her very thoughts.
"I've been watching," he said. "Not in the way a critic watches a collection. I've seen how you work, how you command your space. You have something rare. Something worth more than you realize."
Serena bristled. "And I suppose that gives you the right to decide what I'm worth?"
He shook his head, still calm. "Not worth. Direction. Guidance. Resources. All of which I can provide."
She laughed, sharp and bitter. "You sound like every arrogant man in the city who thinks money buys talent. I don't need your guidance. I don't want your resources. I don't—"
"You will."
The word was low, almost a whisper, but it sliced through the studio like a knife. Serena's pencil clattered to the floor. She looked at him, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
"I am offering you a contract," Dante said simply. "Exclusive access to my connections, my clientele, my brand influence. You will design under my label. Your work will reach stages and magazines you haven't dreamed of yet. You will become a name the world knows."
She took a step back, shaking her head. "And the catch?"
He smiled, cold and precise. "You refuse, and you face the same path you would have anyway, only slower. Doors will close. Opportunities will dry. You'll learn quickly that talent alone isn't enough in this world."
Serena's hands clenched at her sides. "I don't need threats to understand the stakes."
"I'm not threatening you," he said evenly. "I'm stating facts."
The room fell silent, heavy with unspoken tension. Every fiber of her being screamed to run, to reject him completely—but there was a flicker of something else beneath the fury. A reluctant fascination. He was right about one thing: he was inevitable. The storm that had been swirling around her life since the gala now had a face.
She straightened, refusing to let the pull show. "I don't want your deal," she said firmly. "I don't want your money, your empire, your influence. I work alone."
Dante's lips curved faintly, unreadable. "We'll see, Miss Moretti. We'll see."
With that, he turned, leaving her studio silent but for the soft scratch of her pencil returning to the paper. Serena's heart pounded in her ears, her body tense with adrenaline. She had survived the encounter—but survived what exactly? The man was dangerous, yes, but there was something else… something inescapable.
She stared at the sketches, the lines now blurred in her vision. Her thoughts refused to settle.
He knows too much. He's too precise. And yet… I can't ignore him.
The room felt colder than before. Outside, Milan slept, unaware of the quiet storm that had just entered one woman's life.
And in that storm was Dante Leone, the shadow she couldn't outrun.