The first thing Nia felt was silk—warm, unfamiliar, clinging like a secret.
It hugged her like a second skin: smooth, cool, strangely comforting. But beneath the softness, pain pulsed—a deep, steady throb behind her eyes. She winced.
A low groan slipped from her lips as she shifted, slow and cautious, like any sudden move might break her. Her hand found her forehead. Damp skin. Trembling fingers.
The motion stirred her stomach. Nausea rose—bitter, sour—coating the back of her throat. Her mouth tasted like sleep, regret, and something metallic. Like she'd swallowed something she shouldn't have.
She didn't need a mirror. She felt it—lipstick smeared, hair a wreck, soul unraveling.
Something was wrong.
This wasn't the morning after wine, pajamas, and Netflix humming in the background.
No. This was something else entirely.
She cracked one eye open.
The ceiling above was far too high—ivory white, carved with gold vines that curled like secrets into the corners. The kind of ceiling found in a palace—or a place built by someone with too much money and too many secrets.
Sunlight spilled through sheer curtains, dancing in a breeze she couldn't feel. The air smelled of citrus, musk, and beneath it all… something sharper. Something dangerous.
Too perfect. Too still. Too quiet.
Her breath caught. She sat up—fast.
The world spun. She nearly toppled, grabbing the headboard just in time. Silk twisted around her chest as her heart thundered like war drums.
This wasn't her cramped studio with peeling wallpaper and a stubborn air conditioner. No mismatched mugs. No half-read books on the nightstand. No lavender and dust.
This was luxury.
No. This was a trap wrapped in velvet.
Marble floors gleamed like frozen rivers. Crystal sconces scattered fractured light across velvet drapes. A vase of white roses stood beside the bed—immaculate, untouched.
It was the kind of room built to impress... and intimidate.
Her eyes moved. And landed on him.
A man. Sleeping beside her.
He lay on his side, arm tucked under his head, the sheet low on his hips. Bare chest, bronze skin kissed by sunlight. A thin scar sliced just above his collarbone—a single imperfection on a body carved by control.
His face...
God.
He looked like a man sculpted by danger and dusk. Tousled dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a jaw softened only by sleep and the faintest trace of stubble. Even in rest, he radiated authority. Like a king in his castle. Or a predator in his den.
Nia's pulse betrayed her. Some traitorous part of her wanted to trace that scar with her finger. See if he'd flinch.
Who is he?
Her skin prickled. A knot tightened in her chest.
She didn't remember him. Didn't remember this bed. Didn't remember anything.
Panic surged.
She opened her mouth—uncertain whether to scream or pray.
Then he moved.
A subtle shift. Slow. Controlled.
His eyes opened.
Storm-gray. Sharp. Focused.
They locked onto hers instantly. As if he'd been waiting.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared—unshaken, unreadable. Like a hunter watching the first twitch of prey.
And Nia—
She didn't know whether to run… or beg him not to let go.
Then he spoke.
"You're awake."
His voice was rough with sleep but threaded with command. Velvet over steel.
Her heart pounded louder. She scrambled to pull the sheet higher. "Who the hell are you?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Didn't bother with guilt or embarrassment.
He looked like he belonged here.
"Luciano," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
The name curled in the air between them, too calm, too sure.
"Luciano…?" she echoed, eyes narrowing.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. The kind of smile that belonged to men who never said please.
"Luciano De Rossi."
Her breath caught.
The name hit like thunder.
She'd heard it whispered in boardrooms and back alleys. Seen it in headlines laced with speculation and half-truths.
Luciano De Rossi. Billionaire heir. Shadow empire. Mafia blood.
A name draped in power and peril.
A name women like her didn't wake up next to.
Unless something had gone very wrong.
Her mouth went dry. Her thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
"No," she breathed. "No, no, no…"
She looked again—really looked.
Velvet chairs that screamed wealth. Guarded double doors. Two men in black suits stood outside, statues with pistols beneath their tailored jackets. A crystal decanter glittered across the room, untouched.
This wasn't a hotel.
This wasn't a one-night stand.
This was a cage. Silk-lined. Gold-plated.
"What happened last night?" she whispered. "How did I get here?"
Luciano sat up. The sheet slipped lower, revealing more skin. It should have felt intimate. Vulnerable.
But he wore nakedness like armor.
His eyes burned into hers—gray, yes, but laced with heat. Chaos dressed in a tailored suit.
"You really don't remember?" he asked, voice dipping. Almost… disappointed.
She shook her head. Regret slamming into her skull.
"No."
Luciano turned slightly, reached for the nightstand. His eyes never left hers. He plucked something—thin, folded—from the drawer.
A piece of paper.
He held it out to her. Two fingers. No words.
She hesitated.
Her hand reached slowly. The silk slipped off one shoulder, unnoticed. Her fingers brushed
his.
She took the paper.
The scent hit her first—cologne, ink, and danger.
Then she unfolded it.
And saw it.
Her signature.
Her blood ran cold.