Ira’s POV

The first thing I felt was warmth.

The soft press of silk beneath my cheek. A pillow that didn’t smell of dust or cold linen, but something deeper—cologne, spice, and quiet danger.

The second thing I felt was pain.

A dull, aching fire stretching across my back. Like someone had carved a map into my skin and left it to burn.

And the third thing I realized—

I wasn’t in my room.

My eyes flew open.

High ceilings. Dark velvet curtains drawn halfway. A crystal glass of water on a nightstand carved in mahogany. Everything smelled expensive. Heavy.

Luca’s room.

Panic shot through me like a blade. I sat up too quickly—regret hit me instantly.

Pain exploded through my back, and I gasped, one hand clutching my ribs. The thin fabric of the nightgown shifted against raw skin, and my stomach twisted.

I looked down.

This wasn’t the uniform I wore yesterday.

Someone had changed me.

And I knew exactly who.

I blinked against the rising nausea, forcing my legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle screamed in protest, but I couldn’t stay here. Not one second longer. Not in his space. Not where he sleeps.

Not after what he did.

Not after what he didn’t do.

—

I found my uniform—neatly folded—on a chair by the fireplace. My hands shook as I changed into it, flinching every time the fabric grazed a welt.

Then I saw it.

On the nightstand, next to the untouched glass of water:

A bottle of ointment.

Unopened.

I stared at it for a long time.

He brought it. Maybe even thought about using it.

But he didn’t.

Because that would mean he cared.

And Luca Moretti doesn’t care.

He just… owns.

—

I left the room quietly, closing the door behind me like it might wake a monster. The hallway was still. Dim.

Every step back toward the servant quarters felt like walking a tightrope between fury and shame. My body hurt. My pride hurt more.

In the kitchen, the staff bustled like normal—but the silence around me was deafening.

No one said anything. But I felt it in their glances.

They knew.

Matteo wasn’t there.

Someone placed a kettle too hard on the stove. A glass clinked with too much force.

Still, no one spoke to me.

Except for Elide, the older cook who always offered me an extra piece of bread when no one was looking. She brushed past and whispered low:

“Don’t give him reason, ragazza.”

I didn’t respond.

I just grabbed a mug, filled it with water, and left.

—

Back in my room, I peeled off the uniform again and turned toward the cracked mirror hanging above the basin.

I hadn’t looked at myself properly in days.

What I saw now didn’t feel like me.

Purple and red laced my back like vines. Thin, deliberate lashes marked my skin. My eyes were swollen, not from crying—but from holding it in.

I traced one of the welts lightly. It stung under my fingertips.

He could have stopped.

He could have used the ointment.

He could have…

My fists clenched.

No.

Don’t cry. Not for him.

He wants silence. He wants submission.

He wants to watch me break.

Let him.

Let him watch.

Because I might bleed. I might tremble.

But I won’t shatter.

Not for him. Not yet.

---

That evening, I was refilling the vases in the corridor. Moving slowly, carefully. My muscles ached with every stretch, every lift.

Then I heard footsteps.

His.

I didn’t need to look. I felt the shift in the air before he even turned the corner.

Luca walked past me.

He didn’t say a word.

But he slowed.

Just for a second.

And for the first time, I didn’t bow my head.

I stood tall. Bruised, but upright.

Our eyes met.

His narrowed—just slightly.

And I held it.

Held his gaze like it was a challenge. Like a woman with nothing left to lo

se.

He said nothing.

Just walked away.

But I saw it.

The hesitation.

Like maybe, just maybe…

He’s not as unfeeling as he wants me to believe.

---