Ira’s POV

The first time I laughed in this house, it cost me something I didn’t even know I had.

Not freedom. Not comfort.

It cost me invisibility.

And in this house… being invisible is the safest thing a girl like me can be.

—

It started in the morning.

I was walking through the hallway, carrying folded linen toward the laundry, when Matteo—one of the younger kitchen workers—brushed past with his usual crooked grin.

“You always carry the world on your shoulders,” he said softly. “Smile a little, bella. You’re too pretty to look haunted.”

It was harmless. A passing comment. But it caught me off guard.

And I smiled.

Not wide. Not bold. Just enough that for a single second—I felt human again.

And then I felt him.

A cold wind without a breeze. A shadow that made my skin tighten.

I turned.

Luca.

He was standing by the staircase, one hand on the railing, the other holding a glass of something dark. His eyes—flat, unreadable—locked on me.

I lowered my head immediately, instinct burning in my spine. But it was too late.

“Put that down,” he said, voice cutting through the hallway like a blade.

I set the linens on the table beside me, heart pounding.

“Follow me.”

I hesitated.

He walked toward the corridor near the study—dimly lit, lined with old bookshelves and silence.

I followed.

The moment we were hidden from view, he turned sharply and grabbed my arm, dragging me into the alcove near the arch.

His grip wasn’t bruising—but it was a warning in flesh.

He pinned me against the wall—not roughly, but with full control. One hand braced beside my head, the other still holding my wrist.

His voice was low. Lethal.

“What were you smiling at?”

My lips parted, stunned. “It—it was just Matteo—”

“Don’t say his name.”

I flinched.

His eyes burned into mine. “Was he flirting with you? Are you here to serve or to entertain my staff?”

“No,” I whispered. “I wasn’t—I swear—”

“Then why,” he said slowly, “were you smiling like that?”

I looked away. “It was just a second…”

“Exactly,” he hissed. “That’s all it takes for a man to forget what belongs to him.”

I froze.

“I don’t belong—”

He slammed his hand on the wall beside my head. Not hitting me—but close enough that I jumped.

“You’re mine to command, cameriera. Mine to control. Mine to protect. Don’t give anyone else a piece of you.”

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His face was so close, his breath warm and threatening against my cheek.

He leaned in, and in a voice meant only for my bones, he whispered:

“You won’t laugh like that again. Not for anyone. Ever.”

And then—he let go.

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and walked away like nothing happened.

Leaving me standing there, my pulse thundering, my body ice cold, my throat dry.

I should have listened.

But I didn’t know yet how Luca Moretti keeps his promises.

—

Later that evening, in the drawing room, Matteo passed by again.

He said something stupid. Something harmless.

And I—like an idiot—smiled.

That’s when it truly began.

The end of my silence. The collapse of every rule I clung to.

Because Luca walked in. And this time, he didn’t speak to me.

He looked straight at Matteo.

“You have something to say to my cameriera?”

Matteo paled. “I—I was just—”

“Go to the cellar,” Luca said coldly. “And wait.”

And then, without even glancing at me:

“You. Upstairs. Now.”

—

When I entered his room, I stood trembling at the threshold. He didn’t speak. He moved to the bookshelf… pulled it open… and revealed that hidden room I wish I’d never seen.

Dark.

Sterile.

Lined with weapons of obedience.

“Go in,” he said.

I hesitated.

He grabbed my wrist and dragged me in.

The door clicked shut behind us.

“You disobeyed me,” he said, circling me like a predator.

“I wasn’t—he just said something and—”

“You laughed. Again. After I warned you.”

His voice dropped. “You made me look weak in my own house. Like I don’t keep what’s mine in check.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Take it off.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your uniform. Strip. Now.”

My heart sank.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even rage.

It was power.

He wanted to strip me of everything—pride, safety, self.

“I…”

“Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”

Tears blurred my vision as I removed the apron. The outer layer. I stood in the thin underslip, shaking.

“That’s better,” he said, coldly.

He walked to the wall and unhooked the whip.

“You’ll count.”

The first lash came quick.

“One,” I choked.

By ten, my knees gave in.

By twenty, I was sobbing.

He dropped the whip beside me and walked away.

But before he left, he whispered

without looking back:

“You were warned, cameriera.”

“Next time, I won’t stop at twenty.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving me on the cold floor, broken, marked, and owned.

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