Ira's pov
The closet smelled like cedarwood and Luca. Sharp, masculine, expensive.
I didn’t know how long I’d been inside. Time moved strangely here—wrapped in silence and suffocation.
Each shirt I folded felt heavier than the last.
My fingers, sore and trembling, moved slowly over the fabric. I had arranged the whites, then the blacks, and now the dark navies. His wardrobe was endless, cold, and calculated, like the man who owned it.
A bead of sweat rolled down my spine.
I was on my knees. I had been since I started.
The floor was cold beneath my legs, and my body ached from scrubbing for hours. Dishes, marble floors, chandeliers, goddamn baseboards. I hadn’t eaten since the wedding. My stomach growled, ignored.
I blinked down at the next shirt. My hands trembled.
For a moment, the linen twisted in my vision—not a shirt, but a blanket from the orphanage. I was ten again, folding donated clothes for girls who never thanked me. I used to hum while I worked.
Now, all I heard was my own shallow breath.
I used to think weddings were the end of loneliness. Now I knew—they could be the beginning of hell.
I reached for a coat. My finger caught on the metal hanger.
Pain sliced through my skin.
"Ah—"
A thin line of blood bloomed across my finger. I clutched it, whispering curses under my breath.
But I couldn’t stop.
I wiped the blood against the edge of my dress and kept folding. Only I wasn’t fast enough. A drop smeared onto one of his white shirts.
I froze.
Footsteps behind me.
"Even folding a shirt is too much for you?"
His voice.
My blood turned cold.
Luca stood at the doorway, a shadow taller than any nightmare. One shoulder leaned lazily against the frame, but his eyes were razor-sharp.
I quickly reached for the stained shirt.
He stepped in before I could hide it.
"You're filthy, Ira. You bleed on everything you touch."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t dare.
He walked further into the closet. Circling me like a hawk.
"Get on your knees properly," he ordered. "Back straight. Hands on thighs. Head down."
I was already on my knees. But I shifted, adjusting my posture the way he demanded.
My pride shattered with every movement.
My hands rested flat on my thighs. My back stiffened. I lowered my gaze, burning.
He walked behind me.
A shadow fell over me.
His fingers brushed my braid, lifting it slightly, then letting it drop. Then—a single finger glided down the back of my neck. I flinched.
"You shiver when I’m near," he said, voice low. "That’s fear. Not love. And I like it that way."
Tears prickled, but I held them back. He wanted tears. He thrived on them.
He circled again, crouching in front of me. Lifted my chin with two fingers.
"Say it in Italian."
I blinked.
"Say: 'Sono la tua serva.'"
I shook my head faintly, lips parting. "W-what does that—"
"You know what it means."
I did. I didn’t want to say it.
He raised an eyebrow. "Say it. Or I’ll fetch the whip again."
The memory of leather lashing into my back burned bright.
"S-Sono la tua serva," I whispered.
His lips curled.
"Good girl."
The praise hit like venom.
He rose slowly. Turned to leave.
But then he stopped at the threshold.
"You’re finally starting to look like my wife—quiet, bent, and useful."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Maybe next time, I’ll have you scrub the floors in your wedding dress. Might make a better mo
p than a bride."
And just like that, he was gone.
The silence he left behind was louder than any scream.

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