The ring felt heavier the next morning.
Elara noticed it the moment she woke—before the sunlight slipping through silk curtains, before the unfamiliar ceiling above her, before the quiet realization that this was no longer her room, her life, her choice.
She lifted her hand and stared at it.
A flawless diamond. Cold. Perfect.
A promise she had never made.
The Moretti estate was already awake when she dressed. The house breathed with quiet efficiency—maids moving soundlessly, guards stationed at every entrance, the low murmur of men conducting business that never truly slept.
She moved through it like a ghost.
Breakfast was served in a long dining room that felt more like a negotiation table than a place for nourishment. Luca sat at the head, scrolling through his phone, barely acknowledging her presence until she took her seat.
"You'll get used to the routine," he said without looking up. "Breakfast at eight. Lunch whenever you like. Dinner is mandatory."
Elara folded her napkin carefully. "Mandatory?"
"For appearances."
Of course.
A maid poured coffee. Elara thanked her softly. Luca did not notice.
"There will be security with you at all times," he continued. "You don't leave the grounds without informing me."
Her fingers tightened around her cup. "I'm not a prisoner."
Luca finally looked at her then, brows lifting slightly. "No. You're my fiancée. The difference is mostly semantic."
The words landed harder than he intended—or maybe exactly as hard as he meant them to.
She took a sip of coffee to steady herself. "I'd like to continue my volunteer work."
"With who?"
"The children's clinic downtown."
He frowned. "That area isn't safe."
"I've been going there for years."
"You weren't a Moretti then."
The conversation ended the way all conversations with Luca did—without resolution, without warmth, without her voice truly being heard.
When she excused herself, he didn't stop her.
The hallway outside the dining room was empty, sunlight stretching across marble floors like a fragile peace. Elara exhaled slowly, pressing her palm to her chest.
She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been holding herself together.
"You're shaking."
She turned sharply.
Adrian stood near the far archway, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly undone as though he'd already been awake for hours. He looked… real. Less polished than the others. More dangerous for it.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
He didn't argue.
He stepped closer—but not too close. Always that careful distance.
"Luca doesn't know how to listen," he said.
Her throat tightened. "You make it sound like a flaw."
"It is."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that space between them—the unsaid pressing thick and heavy.
"You shouldn't speak to me like this," she said quietly.
"I know."
"People will talk."
"They already do."
That startled her. "About what?"
"About you." His gaze sharpened. "About why my brother chose you. About what you're worth."
Heat flared beneath her ribs. "And what do they say?"
"That you're too soft to survive this family."
Her lips curved bitterly. "Are they wrong?"
Adrian studied her for a long moment. Then he said, "Soft doesn't mean weak."
Something in her chest loosened.
Before she could respond, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. One of the guards approached Adrian, voice low but urgent.
"There's trouble at the south docks."
Adrian's expression shifted instantly—focus snapping into place like a blade sliding free.
"I'll handle it."
The guard hesitated, glancing at Elara. Adrian followed his gaze, then looked back at her.
"Stay inside," he said.
It wasn't a command.
It was concern.
She nodded.
As he turned to leave, she caught his sleeve without thinking. Her fingers brushed warm skin.
Adrian froze.
So did she.
"I—" Her hand fell away. "Be careful."
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. "Always."
He walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of smoke and steel—and something else she refused to name.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. A fitting for an engagement dress she hated. A phone call from her father, heavy with relief and guilt. A dozen reminders—spoken and unspoken—that her life was no longer her own.
Night came too quickly.
Dinner was quieter than the night before. Luca spoke only when necessary. His phone buzzed constantly. When he finally stood, he brushed a kiss against Elara's cheek—brief, absent.
"I have business."
She watched him leave, feeling oddly untouched.
Later, unable to sleep, Elara wandered onto the balcony again. The city glowed below, distant and unreachable.
She wasn't surprised to find Adrian there.
He leaned against the railing, jacket back on, a faint bruise darkening along his knuckles.
Her heart clenched. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"It's always 'nothing,'" she murmured.
He looked at her then, something raw breaking through his control. "You shouldn't care."
"But I do."
The words hung between them, fragile and dangerous.
Adrian straightened. "This—whatever you think this is—it can't happen."
"I know," she said.
"Say it again."
"It can't happen."
Silence.
Then, softly, he said, "Good."
But his eyes told a different story.
A story of restraint stretched thin.
Of lines drawn in blood.
And as Elara stood beside him beneath the dark sky, she understood one terrible truth:
The most dangerous fires were not the ones that raged openly—
but the ones forced to burn in silence.