Ira's pov

The storm came with no warning.

One second the evening sky was its usual dull shade of grey, the next it cracked open with a thunderclap that made the windows of the Moretti mansion tremble. Rain pounded the glass like it was trying to get in. The entire hallway was dimly lit, most lights flickering or dying under the pressure of the thunder.

I had just finished dusting the long hallway upstairs when a gush of wind burst through one of the open windows, soaking me instantly. My thin cotton dress clung to me like second skin. I tried to shut the window, but the old hinges groaned, and before I could stop it, the rain had drenched the floor, my arms, my neck, and the front of my dress.

Then I heard footsteps. Heavy. Sure. Familiar.

Luca.

He didn’t stop walking when he saw me. He only slowed. His gaze moved like a blade across my wet form. His jaw tightened. His eyes turned to stone.

"I told them to keep the windows shut," he said, voice low.

"It opened on its own," I replied, backing away slightly.

His eyes dropped to my chest.

"You might as well be naked," he growled. "The dress clings like you want someone to see you."

I flushed. "It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t know—"

He cut me off with a step forward. Close enough for me to feel the heat of his anger.

"Take it off."

My breath caught. "What?"

He pointed toward the bathroom down the hall. "Go. Strip. Shower. Dry yourself. I don't need you catching a cold."

I hesitated.

He leaned in, voice like a whisper of poison. "I’ve already seen everything, cara. Every dip of your back, every curve of your thighs. In the steam of that bathroom, I memorized the way your body trembled The slope of your breasts, the hollow of your waist, the birthmark near your hip—I know it all."

My chest tightened.

I turned and walked to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stripped quickly, skin crawling under the memory of his gaze. I didn’t cry. Not yet. But my hands trembled as I wrapped myself in a towel.

When I stepped out, he was still there, leaning against the wall.

He handed me one of his shirts. "Put this on. Nothing else."

I wanted to argue. But I didn’t.

The shirt was long, nearly reaching my knees. Still, it made me feel exposed. I wrapped my arms around myself, avoiding his stare.

He walked past me toward his room.

"Come."

---

His room was dimly lit, the rain casting shadows through the windows.

He sat on the edge of his bed, back straight, legs apart. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at me.

"Sit."

I didn’t move.

"I said sit, Ira. On the bed."

I sat.

He leaned forward.

"You remember our vows?"

My lips pressed together.

He smirked. "Repeat them."

"No."

His eyes flashed. He stood, towering over me. Then he bent, took my chin in his hand.

"You married me. You belong to me. Body, soul, and everything in between."

"You didn’t marry me. You trapped me."

"Call it what you want. But your body wears my ring, and your mouth will remember my name."

He pulled me forward so I knelt before him on the carpet.

"Say it. Say you belong to me."

I shook my head.

He leaned closer, whispering against my ear.

"Say it, or I’ll prove it. In ways that leave marks."

I flinched, heart racing.

Then he stepped back.

"Not tonight," he said coldly. "Not until you beg."

He stood and walked out, leaving me alone, in his shirt, the storm raging outside.

---

Days passed. Quiet, charged days. And then came the next blow: his parents arrived.

I didn’t expect it. Bruno warned me in the morning.

"They’re flying in from Rome. Two hours. Be presentable."

Luca gave me one look that morning and said, "Behave."

I dressed in a soft pastel dress his mother once sent. Light makeup, simple hair. My insides churned with anxiety.

They arrived like royalty. His father—tall, silent, intimidating. His mother—elegant, all diamonds and silk and perfectly controlled smiles. She looked at me like she already knew me. Of course, she did. She was the one who brought me into this house as a maid.

"Ira," she greeted warmly. "You look lovely. Much changed since the first time I saw you curled up near the chapel gates."

My throat tightened. I smiled politely.

When we sat in the grand living room, I stood beside Luca like a statue.

And for the first time since our marriage, he reached for my hand.

I almost flinched.

He pressed his fingers to mine, looked at me with a warning smile, and said, "My wife’s still adjusting."

His mother nodded. "But she has a spark in her. You always liked fire."

His father said nothing. Just watched. Measured.

Throughout their visit, Luca touched the small of my back. Spoke gently. Played the doting husband.

But behind every smile, his grip dug into my skin.

And later that night, when we were alone, he pushed me against the wall and said, "That’s how I want you to behave. Always. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

"Yes, Luca."

"Good girl."

---

The next day, we had guests at the estate—dangerous men in expensive suits, cigar smoke thick in the air.

I was asked to serve drinks.

One of the men, a blonde-haired guest from Naples, smiled at me too long. His fingers brushed mine as I handed him a glass of wine.

"Bella ragazza," he said.

I froze.

Luca noticed.

His eyes were calm. Too calm.

He stood, walked to me, took the tray from my hands, and said to everyone, "Excuse us."

He dragged me through the corridor silently. Once we were alone, he slammed me against the wall.

"Smiling at him like that? Do you enjoy being watched like a whore?"

"I didn’t smile—"

He grabbed my jaw. "Every time you breathe near another man, I want to carve it off your face."

I shook my head.

"You belong to me, Ira. Your voice. Your skin. Even your damn smile."

He held me there for a long second before letting go.

"Get to my room. Now. And if you disobey me tonight, I

’ll make sure you regret ever being born."

And just like that, the storm outside finally quieted.

But the one inside him was only getting worse.

And I was trapped at its eye.