Ira’s POV

The room was darker now.

Not dim — dark. Lit only by a single spotlight overhead, casting a sharp pool of light across the center of the private lounge.

I stood in it.

Alone. Exposed. Shaking.

Somewhere beyond the edges, Luca sat — I could feel his gaze even when I couldn’t see his eyes.

There were men in the room. Three or four. Maybe five. I didn’t know who they were, and I didn’t care. They weren’t strangers. Not really.

Not when they looked at me like I was less than a person.

Like I was a show.

I tried not to breathe too loudly. My heart was pounding in my ears. The short black dress clung to me like a second skin, far too tight, far too revealing. My feet ached in the tall heels. My hands trembled at my sides.

A voice — Luca’s — drifted through the darkness like smoke.

> “Dance.”

I froze.

The room stilled with me.

Luca didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

> “Now.”

I swallowed hard, my legs refusing to move.

“Luca—”

His chair creaked as he leaned forward.

> “You ran from me. Lied to me. Made me look like a fool. And now you want to stand there and pretend you still have choices?”

The spotlight burned hotter on my skin.

“Dance,” he repeated, sharper now. “Or I’ll make you do something worse.”

I closed my eyes.

And moved.

Slow at first — just swaying. Barely a rhythm. Barely a performance. Just survival.

But I could feel them watching.

I could hear the faint, cruel laughter of the men in the shadows. One of them muttered something in Italian. Another whistled low.

Shame climbed my spine like a claw.

I kept going.

I tried to think of nothing. Tried to disappear from my own skin. But I felt everything. The way the dress shifted with each step. The way my bare thighs rubbed. The way sweat began to form at the base of my neck.

And then—

> “Strip.”

The word sliced through the air like a whip.

I stopped breathing.

I turned my head slowly toward the dark corner where Luca sat.

I couldn’t see his face.

Only the glowing end of his cigar as he exhaled smoke into the silence.

“I—I can’t,” I choked.

Wrong answer.

His chair scraped back against the floor, and a second later, his boots echoed on the tiles.

He stepped into the light.

His expression was unreadable. Calm. But there was something in his eyes that made my stomach twist.

“Can’t?” he repeated. “You ran through the streets like a cheap girl. You threw yourself at a guard. And now you want dignity?”

I looked down.

He came closer.

Closer.

Until his fingers were beneath my chin, lifting my face roughly.

“Take it off. Slowly. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Tears welled up, but I didn’t let them fall.

My hands shook as I reached for the hem of the dress. I pulled it just an inch up—

> “Stop.”

His voice, again. Cold and final.

I looked up, confused.

Luca took one long, deliberate step back. The spotlight caught the glint in his eyes. And then he turned—slowly, smoothly—toward the others.

“She’s pathetic, isn’t she?” he said, voice casual. “Couldn’t even dance without trembling.”

The men chuckled.

I wanted to disappear.

Wanted to scream.

But instead, I stood there.

Frozen. Unmoving.

“Get out,” he said suddenly to the others.

They left. Quietly. Quickly.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Now it was just us again.

Luca circled me once. Twice.

I didn’t dare look at him.

Then I felt it—his coat, heavy and warm, being draped across my shoulders.

He leaned close, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

> “I don’t share what’s mine.”

I stood still, silent, as his hand lingered on my back.

Then, just like that, he walked away, disappearing on

ce again into the darkness — like the devil retreating into hell.

And I stood under the spotlight,

dressed in humiliation, drowned in silence.