The room went cold the moment Damien's footsteps faded.
something shifted in the air—a pressure drop, like the seconds before a storm breaks. Elara knew this feeling. Had lived inside it for twenty-one years.
Her father's smile didn't fall.
That was the worst part. It never did. He kept it there, warm and paternal, even as he walked a slow circle around her.
"Look at me."
She lifted her eyes. Met his gaze. Held it.
Most people couldn't hold Vittorio Rossi's gaze for long. There was something in it—something that made them look away, made them shrink, made them suddenly remember appointments they were late for.
Elara had learned to hold it.
She'd learned because the alternative was worse.
"So." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. "Lucian Moretti. Two weeks."
"Yes."
"And?"
The question hung there. And? As if he was asking about a business trip. A minor inconvenience. How was the food? Did you sleep well?
"He—" She faltered. Calculated. What did he want to hear? What would keep his hands at his sides and his voice at this level?
"He was making a point. To Damien. I was just... the method."
"The method." Vittorio repeated the word slowly, tasting it. "My daughter. Reduced to a method."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you."
It wasn't a question.
His hand came up.
Elara didn't flinch. Flinching made it worse. She'd learned that at nine years old, when he'd slapped her so hard for flinching that she'd seen stars for an hour afterward. If you're going to be afraid, at least have the dignity to hide it.
But his hand didn't strike.
It cupped her cheek. Gentle. Almost loving. The way a father might touch his daughter after a long absence. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone.
"You know what I've given you," he said softly. "Everything. Education. Training. Protection from the worst of what men like me do to girls like you. I kept you clean, Elara. Do you understand how rare that is? How easy it would have been to just—"
He made a gesture. Obscene in its implication.
"—but I didn't. Because you were worth more intact. Because I had plans for you."
"I know." Her voice came out steady. Years of practice. "I'm grateful."
"Grateful." His thumb pressed harder against her cheekbone. Just a reminder. "Grateful, she says. And yet here you are. Ruined. Used. Worthless."
"Damien still—"
"Damien won't touch you with a ten-foot pole." Vittorio laughed—a short, ugly sound. "Do you think I don't know? I saw the way he looked at you. Like something scraped off his shoe. My carefully cultivated daughter, my pristine little investment, and you couldn't even keep your legs closed long enough to—"
"I didn't have a choice."
The words came out before she could stop them.
Silence.
Vittorio's hand went still on her face. His eyes—dark, flat, empty of anything that resembled human warmth—fixed on hers.
"What did you say?"
Breathe. Don't panic. Recover.
"I only meant—" She softened her voice, let it tremble. "He took me. His men held me down. I fought, I tried to—"
"Did I ask what you tried?"
"No."
"Did I ask for excuses?"
"No."
"Then why are you giving them to me?"
His hand slid from her cheek to her chin. Gripping. Tilting her face up. His fingers dug into the soft flesh beneath her jaw—not hard enough to bruise, never hard enough to bruise where it showed, but hard enough that she felt her pulse beating against his fingertips.
"You had one job," he said quietly. "One purpose. Stay clean until I could sell you to someone useful. That's it. That's all I ever asked of you. And you couldn't even do that."
I was kidnapped, she wanted to scream. I was dragged out of a car and held for two weeks and violated over and over and you're angry at ME?
She said nothing.
"Now I have to salvage this." His grip tightened. "Damien's already looking for ways out of the contract. His lawyers have been sniffing around the fine print. If he annuls this marriage—if he decides you're more trouble than you're worth—do you know what that means for me?"
"I—"
"It means I lose the Moretti alliance. It means the territories I was promised go to someone else. It means years of planning, wasted. Because you couldn't keep one man out of your cunt."
The vulgarity landed like a slap.
Elara didn't react. Couldn't react. She was somewhere else now—the place she went when survival required absence. A small room in the back of her mind where nothing could touch her.
"So here's what's going to happen." Vittorio released her chin. Stepped back. Adjusted his cuffs like they'd been having a pleasant conversation. "You're going to fix this."
"How?"
"I don't care how. Seduce him. Make yourself useful. Get pregnant if you have to—I don't care whose bastard it is, as long as Damien thinks it's his." He smiled again. The warm, fatherly smile. "You're a smart girl, Elara. Surely you can figure out how to make a man want you."
She stared at him.
Get pregnant. Make Damien want you. Fix the mess you made by being kidnapped and raped.
"And if I can't?"
The stupid question slipped out ,
Vittorio tilted his head. Considering.
"Do you remember Elias?"
Her blood went cold.
Elias.
Hands that touched her like she was something precious. The first person who ever made her feel like maybe, maybe she could be loved—
The knife in her hand. Her father's voice in her ear. "Do it or I'll make it last for days. Do it and I'll make it quick. Choose, Elara. Show me you understand."
Blood on her fingers. Light leaving his eyes. The sound he made at the end—
"I remember," she whispered.
Honestly ,it won't be bad to join him , but what joy is there if she didn't make this man
Suffer first .
"Good." Vittorio straightened his tie. "Then you understand what happens when you disappoint me. And you understand that next time, I won't be as kind."
He walked past her toward the door.
Elara didn't move. Couldn't. Her body was locked in place, frozen by something older than fear.
Vittorio paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"Smile, darling. Your husband is just outside."
She smiled.
The door opened. Light spilled in from the hallway. She heard Vittorio's voice shift—warm again, pleasant, the concerned father thanking his son-in-law for the hospitality.
And then footsteps fading . He was finally gone
Elara stood alone in the room.
Her hands were shaking. She looked down at them, distantly surprised. When had that started? She couldn't remember. Couldn't feel them, really. Couldn't feel anything except the ghost of her father's fingers on her chin and the memory of blood that never quite washed off no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Get pregnant. Make him want you. Fix this.
Or end up like Elias.
She closed her eyes.
The small room in the back of her mind was still there. Quiet and Safe. She could stay there for a while. Just a few minutes. Just until the shaking stopped and she could put the mask back on and walk out of this room like nothing had happened.
Just until—
"Your father's gone."
Her eyes flew open.
Damien stood in the doorway.
She hadn't heard him approach or heard the door open. He was just there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with those cold gray eyes.
How long had he been standing there?
What had he seen?
"I—" She scrambled to reassemble herself. Soft expression. Downcast eyes. Trembling voice. "Thank you. For letting us talk. I know he can be... he worries about me, that's all. He just—"
"Stop."
Elara went silent.
Damien didn't move from the doorway. Didn't come closer. Just studied her with an expression she couldn't read.
"Your hands are shaking."
She looked down. They were still shaking .
Stop, she told them. Stop it right now.
They didn't listen.
"It's nothing." She clasped them together, trying to force stillness. "I'm just... it's been a long day. The journey back, and then seeing my father, and—"
"You're afraid of him."
Elara's head snapped up before she could stop it. For one terrible second, the mask slipped—something raw flashing across her face. Fear. Denial. The desperate scramble of a cornered animal.
Then it was gone.
"I don't know what you mean." Soft voice. Confused expression. "He's my father. I love him."
Damien said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Elara could feel him trying to find where the seams didn't quite match up. He was smart—she'd known that from the beginning , indifferent to her existence, but smart.
Had she made a mistake? Shown too much? Let something slip that she shouldn't have?
No. Hold the line. He doesn't know anything. He just saw a scared girl and made an assumption. Give him what he expects.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm tired. If I could just... rest for a while..."
Damien pushed off from the doorframe.
For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to come closer. Press further. Demand answers she couldn't give.
Instead, he stepped aside.
"Just go to your room ." His voice was flat. Unreadable. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."
She nodded. Kept her eyes down. Walked past him on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
She could feel his gaze on her back as she moved down the hallway.
She reached her room. Closed the door , Leaned against it and took a deep breath .The room was large. A bed with white sheets, a wardrobe she hadn't filled, a window that looked out over gardens.
Elara moved to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the sun was setting—orange and red bleeding across the sky like something wounded.
Lucian.
Two weeks in his keeping.
he'd talked. About his mother. About the brother who'd let her die. About the rage that lived in his chest like a second heartbeat.
And he'd listened.
When she'd screamed at him on the fifth night—really screamed, all the rage she'd been swallowing for years pouring out in a torrent of profanity and hatred—he hadn't hit her. Hadn't punished her. Hadn't even seemed angry.
He'd just looked at her with something like recognition.
"There you are," he'd said. "I was wondering when you'd stop pretending."
She hadn't known what to do with that.
Still didn't.
A knock at the door.
Elara straightened. Composed herself. Walked over and opened it.
Alessio stood in the hallway, his face carefully blank. But his eyes—his eyes were burning with questions he couldn't ask here, in a house full of ears and enemies.
"Mr. Moretti wanted me to inform you," he said, voice flat and professional, "that there's been a change of plans for dinner."
"Oh?"
"His brother will be joining you."
Elara's heart stopped.
Then started again, too fast.
"Lucian?"
"Yes, ma'am." Alessio's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He arrived ten minutes ago.
Apparently, he's... eager to see how you've settled in."
Elara smiled.
It was a terrible smile. Sharp and brittle and nothing like the soft expression she'd worn for her father.
"Thank you, Alessio." She gripped the door. "Tell Mr. Moretti I'll be ready."
Alessio hesitated.
"Elara—"
"I'll be ready," she repeated.
She closed the door and Leaned against it.
And started planning what to wear to dinner with the two men .