Lady Vivienne De Rossi sat rigidly in her chair, her knuckles pale against the armrest as she tried — and failed — to contain the storm rising within her. The chandelier light above trembled slightly with the draft, catching on the frost in her eyes.
Selene. That insolent girl. That nothing who dared to look her in the eye and fling words like knives across her dining table.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she replayed the humiliation: Damian, her son, silencing her… for her. For that stray, his pride had dragged into their house like a wounded dog.
"Unacceptable," she hissed into the empty room. Her voice quivered with restraint, as if the walls themselves were witnesses. "That girl will not last here. Not in my house. Not under my God damn roof."
She stood, pacing the length of her chamber, her gown whispering against the carpet like a serpent in grass. The family name—her husband's legacy, her sons' inheritance—could not be cheapened by this… intrusion.
But what unsettled her most wasn't Selene's disrespect. No, it was Damian. The way he had defended her. Like she mattered. Like she had power in this house that Lady Moreau had not granted.
Her jaw tightened.
"What is she to him?" The question gnawed at her. "Why is she still here? Why does he—of all people—shield her?"
Her sons had been equally baffled. Lucien sneering, Marcus simmering. And yet, in their confusion, they had looked to her—for answers, for control. And she had none. That, more than anything, was intolerable.
The De Rossi family did not bend to outsiders. The De Rossi family devoured them.
She paused at the window, looking down into the gardens lit by moonlight, her reflection glaring back at her in the glass. No matter what it cost, she would uncover the truth. And if that girl thought she could make a fool of her—she would learn how merciless a mother could be.
Just then—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound cracked through the tense silence. Her head turned sharply toward the door, lips curling into something between suspicion and wrath.
"Enter," she commanded, her voice cold as steel.
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If anyone had told me a week ago that Damian De Rossi — Mister Stone-Cold Statue himself — would be kneeling in front of me, his lips brushing my knees like I was some cursed saint, I'd have laughed myself hoarse. And yet… here we were.
My breath stuttered, my brain screamed abort mission, but my treacherous heart decided to do gymnastics in my ribcage. Great. Just great.
"Do you really want to know why I keep you here?" His voice was a low hum against my skin, dangerous, like the warning purr of a predator that isn't hungry but might eat you anyway just for fun.
My sarcasm was supposed to save me in moments like this, right? Sharp tongue, instant shield. Except my mouth betrayed me.
"Yes," I breathed, softer than I intended. "I do."
And just like that, he tilted his head up, caught my gaze with those impossibly unreadable eyes, and then—out of every other thing he could do to prove a point, he just had to 'kiss'.
He kissed me.
Not the chaste, awkward brush you give to shut someone up. No. This was deliberate. A test or maybe a claim. His lips crashed into mine with a pull so fierce I forgot where the air in my lungs went. And then, just as suddenly, he let me go. Like I was a spark he'd touched on purpose, only to snatch his hand away before burning.
I sat there, dazed. He? Perfectly calm. Typical.
And because the universe loves to kick me while I'm down—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound jolted us both. A voice from beyond the door:
"Master Damian. Your mother requests your presence."
Of course. Perfect timing. The Wicked Witch of the West had summoned her favorite son.
Damian straightened, his expression already sliding back into that unreadable mask I hated and feared in equal measure. He didn't even look ruffled. Meanwhile, I was basically vibrating like a broken violin string.
"That will be all for tonight," he said smoothly, as if he hadn't just kissed me into oblivion.
And just like that, I was dismissed. Like a guest. Like a prisoner. Like nothing.
I sank back into the chair, forcing a bitter laugh under my breath.
"Sure. Just another night in the madhouse," I muttered, too low for him to care.
But my knees were still tingling where his lips had been. And I hated myself for noticing.
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By the time I dragged myself back into my room, I felt like I'd been through twelve rounds of emotional boxing with the devil himself. I was now very tired, I couldn't even play sarcastic right. I simply let myself collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would explain what the hell just happened between Damian and me. Spoiler: it didn't.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Clara. Of course. Because the universe never lets me spiral in peace.
I swiped to answer.
"Clara, if you're calling to tell me my horoscope says don't make stupid decisions, you're late by about… oh, three disasters."
"Bitch," she snapped instantly. "Where the fuck are you?"
My mind went blank. For some reason, Clara's usual resolve spiked. She was not the type to—you know. Maybe she just had a few drinks and then decided to call me to get sober. Oh God, I don't know how much more of this I can take.
I blinked. "Uh… hi to you too? I'm—" I hesitated, because how do you casually say you're in the lair of the actual mafia prince? "—at Damian's mansion."
There was a full three seconds of stunned silence on her end before Clara screeched so loud that I had to pull the phone away.
"EXCUSE ME? Damian's what? Mansion? Like actual mansion mansion with fountains and marble floors and probably ghosts of his ancestors judging your broke ass?"
"Wow," I said flatly. "Tell me how you really feel."
"Don't sass me, bitch. I literally went to your shitty apartment to drag you out for wine, and guess what? Landlord had it locked up like Fort Knox. Said you hadn't been there, because you hadn't paid the rent for three months. Do you know how embarrassing it is when your best friend vanishes and your landlord looks at you like you're some failed babysitter?"
I sat up, frowning. "Wait—you went to my apartment? Like, physically went?"
"Yes! Because you don't answer your goddamn texts. I thought maybe you were kidnapped or murdered or worse—ran away with some random dude. Which, apparently, you did."
I groaned, shoving a hand over my face. "Clara, you're so dramatic. I didn't run away. Damian asked me to stay here for a while."
"'Asked'?" She barked out a laugh so sharp it nearly cracked my eardrum. "Girl, rich psychos don't 'ask.' They command. Next thing you know, he's gonna have you wearing one of those creepy Victorian gowns and calling him 'master.'"
"Ew," I gagged. "Thanks for the nightmare fuel."
"I'm just saying!" Clara shot back. "You sound… different. Like, what the hell are you doing there anyway? You don't do mansions. You do microwaved noodles and sarcasm. Definitely sarcasm inclusive."
I flopped onto my side, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. "Trust me, I'm asking myself the same question every five minutes. It's like living inside a soap opera but with way scarier lighting. His family hates me, his mother's a demon in pearls, and his brothers—don't even get me started on the dick-measuring contest they had at dinner."
Clara snorted. "So basically, you're starring in Keeping Up with the Psychopaths. Love that for you."
"Ha-ha," I deadpanned. "Hilarious. Really."
But the truth was… she wasn't wrong.
Before I could reply with something cutting, though, a murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Low, sharp, overlapping tones, too serious to be casual chatter. My chest tightened. Something was brewing.
"Clara, I gotta go," I whispered, sitting up.
"Selene—"
"I'll call you back." And before she could protest, I ended the call, phone still buzzing in my hand, as I strained to catch the words floating through the mansion's cavernous halls.
Whatever it was, it didn't sound good.