Luca’s POV

She was still crying when I left.

Good.

Let her sob. Let her choke on the shame. Let her learn that wearing my ring wouldn’t protect her from the storm that was me.

The blonde squirmed in my arms as I carried her down the hallway, her perfume clinging to my throat like a curse. I didn’t speak. Didn’t glance at her.

I could still feel Ira’s eyes.

Still hear the sound of her breaking in that bedroom — the one I had dressed in silk and then set on fire.

> “Mmm, where are we going, amore?” the blonde purred, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “Your wife’s tears got you all worked up, huh?”

I stopped.

And without a single word, I threw her.

Hard.

She hit the wall with a thud, heels snapping beneath her, landing in a heap of smeared lipstick and shock.

> “Luca—what the hell?!” she hissed, clutching her shoulder. “You used me—!”

> “Ovviamente.”

(Obviously.)

I stepped closer, crouched slightly, and stared into her frightened eyes.

> “Touch me again and I’ll cut the hand off.”

“You were never meant for me. You were meant for her pain. That’s all.”

She started to cry.

I walked away.

Unbothered. Uninterested.

My chest was hollow, but my hands were steady.

Because what I did tonight wasn’t about pleasure.

It was about control.

And punishment.

---

The Morning After

I didn’t sleep.

Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed for hours, staring at the candlelight until the sky began to shift from black to bruised blue.

When I finally stepped back into the bedroom, Ira was curled up in the corner of the mattress — still in her wedding dress, her face buried in her arms, her back to me.

Good.

Let her think I slept in another room.

Let her think I enjoyed another woman while she wept alone.

But the truth?

The blonde was gone. Just like the others before her.

None of them could burn like Ira.

---

At sunrise, I found her whispering in front of the window.

It was quiet — rhythmic.

Almost like chanting.

I stepped closer, frowning as I noticed a small orange figurine balanced on the edge of the sill. A monkey? Golden and sitting in a meditative pose.

> “Bruno,” I said as he entered behind me, “Che diavolo è quello?”

(What the hell is that?)

He glanced at the idol.

> “Hanuman. Hindu deity. God of strength, protection. Devotion.”

“She must’ve brought it from the orphanage or wherever she grew up.”

> “She prays to that?”

> “Every morning, it seems.”

I stared at her.

Tiny. Silent. Whispering to  god to protect her from me.

> “Good,” I muttered. “Let her pray. She’ll need it.”

---

By mid-morning, she came downstairs.

in black dress. No makeup. Her hair was a tangled mess and her lips were dry.

She looked like someone who had buried a loved one.

And in a way… she had.

She’d buried the illusion that I could love her.

> “Kitchen,” I said flatly, not even glancing up from my coffee. “Now.”

She stopped mid-step.

Good.

I wanted her off balance. Unsteady. Unsure.

> “You’ll clean every dish used in last night’s dinner,” I said slowly. “Scrub the wine off the tablecloth. Sweep the hallway. Mop the floor. Clean the damn crystal if you have to.”

She didn't speak.

Her eyes lowered.

And she obeyed.

Just like a maid.

Just like she was always meant to.

---

By noon, she was still scrubbing.

I passed her once in the hallway — her dupatta soaked in water, her wrists red from the soap. Her eyes were sunken. Her posture slouched.

But she kept going.

Like she knew she had no other choice.

By three o’clock, she was near collapse.

That’s when I gave her one last order.

> “Clean my wardrobe,” I said, leaning on the railing above the stairs. “Color-coded. Properly folded. Pressed where needed.”

She looked up from the dining table, exhausted.

But I didn’t soften.

> “Upstairs. Twenty minutes. I want everything done before di

nner.”

She stood.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t cry.

Just walked — shoulders heavy, steps dragging — into the lion’s den I had built for her with my own hands.

---