The morning light filtered through the automatic curtains of my room, painting pale stripes on the ceiling. I hadn't slept. Just lying there, motionless, listening to the heavy silence of the penthouse and churning Alexander's words in my brain like sharp stones.
"Find him. And find out everything he knows about her. Everything."
He was hunting Daniel. And, in doing so, he was unearthing parts of my life that I had buried for a reason. The idea of Daniel—fragile, desperate, volatile—in the clutches of Alexander's men filled me with a chilling dread. Not from longing, but from knowledge. Daniel, when pressured, was unpredictable. And he knew things. Things I could never allow Alexander to find out.
When the clock struck seven in the morning, I got out of bed. My body weighed like lead. Dressed in leggings and a loose T-shirt—my clothes, not his—I carefully opened the bedroom door.
The smell of fresh coffee filled the air. I followed it to the kitchen.
Alexander was there, standing in front of the steel island, reading something on a tablet. He was wearing sweatpants and a simple white T-shirt, which highlighted the muscles of his arms and the discreet tattoo that snaked down his left forearm—something in Latin that I had never been able to decipher properly. He seemed… normal. Relaxed. As if he hadn't spent the night orchestrating a manhunt.
He looked up when I entered. No surprise, no warmth, no coldness. Just a neutral observation.
—You didn't sleep—he stated, not asking.
—You were awake too—I replied, stopping on the other side of the island. The distance between us seemed like an abyss.
—Business—he said, shrugging, and took a sip of coffee.
—Business.—I repeated the word, making it laden with meaning.—Like the "business" with Daniel Morris?
He put down the tablet slowly. His eyes met mine.—Ah. So you heard.
— You wanted me to listen.
A slight smile touched his lips. It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was one of approval, as if I had passed an unspoken test. — Maybe. He's a threat to the stability of our agreement, Isabella. An uncontrolled variable. I eliminate uncontrolled variables.
— He's a person! — the explosion escaped me before I could contain it. — You can't just… "eliminate" him!
— I'm not a murderer, darling — he replied, his voice calm and didactic, as if explaining something obvious to a child. — I'm a strategist. I'm containing a threat. Your ex-boyfriend has a gambling addiction and debts to unsavory people. I'm offering him a financial solution… in exchange for your discretion and disappearance.
The relief was minuscule and immediately swallowed by a new wave of fear. — What kind of solution?
— The kind that pays off his debts and puts him on a plane to a place where he can start over. Far from you. Far from us.
— And in return?
— In return, he tells you everything he knows about you. Every secret, every fear, every hidden debt. — He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the cold steel. — It's a fair trade, don't you think? I buy his silence with the money you'd need anyway to pay off the debts he helped create.
It was diabolical. It was brilliant. It was the cruelest way to show me that he not only controlled my present and future, but now also rewrote and settled my past. And appropriated it in the process.
— Why? — the question came out in a hoarse whisper. — Why bother? The contract doesn't cover that.
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning my face, as if searching for the answer there. — Because — he said finally, his voice lower — I don't share what's mine.
The statement, raw and possessive, echoed in the silent kitchen. It wasn't about protection. It was about possession.
— I'm not a thing, Alexander.
— No? — He raised an eyebrow. — You sold yourself for a price. In my line of work, that makes you an asset. And I protect my assets. From external threats… and from your own weaknesses.
I felt naked, exposed, reduced to an item on a balance sheet. Anger, hot and invigorating, began to replace fear.
— And my uncle? — I attacked, changing tactics. — Is he also a "threat" to be contained?
His expression closed completely. — Your uncle Marco is a greedy and stupid man. He saw your new name in the society columns and saw an opportunity to make money. He called to ask for a "loan." — Alexander smiled, a humorless gesture. — I told him that the new Mrs. Vance no longer has financial ties with the Moretti family. And that if he called again, my answers would be less… verbal.
My heart ached for Marco, even with all his flaws. He was my family. What was left of it.
— You don't have the right…
— I have every right! — his voice cut through the air like a whip, and he straightened up, his height suddenly overwhelming. — You gave up "You waived those rights when you signed the pages I put in front of you! Did you think it was just about posing for photos and sleeping in silk sheets? This agreement—he spat the word—requires me to invade every corner of your life, Isabella! To protect my investment! To protect our charade!"
He breathed harder, a rare crack in his perfect composure. I could see the frustration in him, genuine and hot. It wasn't just anger at control. It was anger at… involvement.
"So tell me," I challenged, holding onto the cold edge of the island. "When you find out 'everything' about me… what are you going to do with that information? Use it against me? Remind me of my place?"
He crossed the kitchen in three long strides, stopping inches from me. His body emanated heat and tension.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice rough. "That's the damn part. I don't know what I'm going to do."
The raw honesty of that statement left me breathless. He didn't have a final plan. I was navigating blindly, just like I was.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, this time without accusation, just with deep confusion. "You could just ignore me. Let my ghosts destroy me and then discard me when the year is over."
His gaze held mine. In his gray eyes, a storm was brewing.
"Because maybe," he whispered, the word almost a breath, "I don't want you to be destroyed."
The world stopped. The air between us became charged, electric, full of all the unspoken things, all the feigned touches that perhaps weren't so feigned after all.
He raised his hand slowly, as if moving through heavy water. His fingers hovered near my face, almost touching my temple.
"That's the rule that isn't written in the contract, Isabella," he said, his voice deep and serious. "We can pretend to the world. But we can't pretend here, within these walls. Not for a whole year. The lines will blur." The rules will be broken.
His index finger finally touched my skin, a contact as light as a bird's wing, but one that burned like embers.
"The question isn't whether we'll break them," he continued, his gaze fixed on the point where his skin met mine. "The question is… how many pieces will be left to collect when it's all over."
The touch lasted only a second before he pulled away, as if he had been burned. The distance he created was physical, but his words lingered in the air, enveloping us like a web.
He picked up his tablet and his coffee. "I have meetings all day. The car is at your disposal if you want to go out." At the kitchen door, he stopped, without turning around. "And Isabella? Don't try to contact Daniel. Don't try to help your uncle. You'll only make things worse for them."
And then he left, leaving me alone in the immense kitchen, with the smell of his coffee and the echo of his cruel truth.
He didn't want me to be destroyed. But in his world, protecting something meant possessing it, controlling it, emptying it of any threat. And in the process of protecting me from my demons, he was becoming one of them.
And the most terrifying part?
Part of me was starting not to care.
The afternoon arrived with an oppressive silence. I tried to distract myself in the library, but the words in the books blurred before my eyes. That's when the apartment intercom rang. I answered, my heart in my throat. It was the doorman. "Mrs. Vance, there's a man here at reception. He says he's your uncle. He insists on seeing you. He says it's… a family emergency." I looked at the elevator door, at Alexander's controlled world. And then at the intercom, at the chaos of my past. The choice was mine: obey Alexander and ignore the call, or go down and face the ghost that could destroy everything. My hand hovered over the intercom button. If I answered, I would be defying him. If I didn't answer, I would be abandoning my blood. I took a deep breath. And pressed the button to speak.