Ira's POV

The silence was the worst part.

It hung in the air like poison, seeping through the walls of Luca’s mansion and curling into my bones. There had been no yelling. No slaps. No orders. Nothing. For the past few days, he’d treated me like furniture—present, useful, but utterly beneath his notice.

I almost missed his cruelty.

At least when he punished me, I felt something. Anger. Shame. Pain. Now, I was just... invisible.

This evening, Bruno had brought a freshly pressed black suit into the room with a single command: "Signore wants this in his study. Don’t be late."

So here I was. Holding his jacket like a servant again.

He didn’t even glance at me when I entered.

He was by the window, swirling dark liquor in a crystal glass, the dim light catching on his rings and watch. Always flawless. Always unreadable.

I stood there. Waiting. A minute. Then two. Still nothing.

My fingers twitched.

“I brought your suit,” I said quietly.

He didn’t turn.

My heart thudded. Something inside me snapped.

I walked forward and threw the jacket—hard—across the room. It landed over the arm of a chair.

"You act like I’m invisible. Is this what you wanted? A maid you can legally keep in your bed?" I hissed.

Nothing.

“You treat me like air! Like I don't exist! Just say something—anything! Slap me. Hurt me. I don’t care! But don’t ignore me like I’m some ghost!”

He finally turned.

Slowly.

His face was unreadable.

Then he stepped forward and whispered, "You’re right. I’ve been gentle far too long."

My breath caught.

He closed the distance between us in two long strides. I tried to back away, but he grabbed my wrist, firm and unrelenting.

“Strip.”

“What?” I gasped.

“You heard me. Strip.”

I stood frozen.

His hand gripped tighter.

“You want attention? This is how you earn it. Take it off.”

“No,” I whispered.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he dragged me toward the tall mirror beside the wardrobe. My reflection stared back at me—wild-eyed, breathless, broken.

He stood behind me, lowering his mouth to my ear.

“Look at what I bought. An orphan. A maid. Pretending to be a queen.”

My throat burned.

“I married you,” I said. “But you will never own what’s inside me.”

He chuckled—dark, low, chilling.

“Not yet.”

I snapped.

I turned, hand flying, and slapped him—hard—across the face.

The sound cracked like thunder.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t raise a hand. Just slowly turned his head back toward me, cheek flushed.

Then he smiled.

That terrible, cold smile.

“Finally. Something real.”

His hand shot out, gripping my jaw.

“You forgot who owns your voice, bambolina. You forgot what I can do to make you beg for silence again.”

“I’m not scared of you anymore,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes.

“No,” he said. “You’re not scared. You’re reckless. And tomorrow—” he leaned in, breath warm against my lips, “you’ll beg me to remember this slap as mercy.”

He released me and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

I collapsed to the floor. Not from pain.

But because I knew I’d awakened the vers

ion of Luca I might not survive.

And worse—some dark, twisted part of me didn’t want to run.

Not yet.