Elara woke to the scent of roses and steel.
The bed beneath her was unfamiliar. Silk sheets, too smooth and too cold, tangled around her bare legs. She opened her eyes slowly, feeling the ache of sleep in her bones and the weight of fear settling in her chest like iron.
This was not home. Not the small, cramped apartment in the quiet corner of Trastevere with its peeling paint and the faint smell of turpentine and canvas. This was Lucien Moretti's world. A place of marble floors, shadowed halls, and silent servants who moved like ghosts.
And she was trapped in it.
Elara sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, glancing around the room. It was impossibly grand. A chandelier hung like crystal rain from the ceiling. Heavy velvet curtains drowned the light. The walls were lined with books bound in leather and gold. Every surface gleamed. Every detail whispered wealth and power and danger.
A soft knock broke the silence. Before she could speak, the door creaked open.
Lucien stood there.
He filled the space with quiet authority, dressed this time in black slacks and a dark shirt that made his pale skin seem even sharper, more precise. His eyes found her at once, unreadable as polished stone.
"You are awake," he said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "Good."
Elara gripped the sheet tighter. "Why am I here?" she asked, her voice small but steady.
Lucien's mouth curved in something that could have been amusement. Or cruelty.
"I thought we covered this," he said as he crossed the room. "You are here because you belong to me now. Because your father made mistakes. Sins that do not wash away with time."
She shook her head, anger rising through the fear. "I am not my father. You have no right to keep me here. This is madness."
Lucien stopped at the edge of the bed. His gaze dropped, taking in the fragile defiance of her posture, the tension in her arms, the faint flush of fear coloring her throat.
"No right?" he repeated softly. "Elara, you were bought and paid for long before you were born. Your father traded loyalty for betrayal, friendship for greed. He stole from me something that cannot be replaced."
Elara felt her stomach twist. "What did he steal?"
Lucien's eyes darkened. For a moment, she saw something flicker behind them. A shadow of memory. Pain.
"My father," he said, voice low and quiet. "His life. His honor. His legacy. All destroyed because Vincent Vale thought he could outwit the Moretti name. And he did, for a time. But debts remain. And now, they are yours to pay."
Elara swallowed hard, the weight of her father's secrets crushing against her chest. She wanted to scream. To cry. To tell him this was a mistake. But the truth hung between them like smoke. She did not know what her father had done. She did not know the stories he had buried.
And Lucien knew it.
He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers were cold and soft against her cheek.
"You look like him," Lucien murmured. "The same eyes. The same stubborn mouth. I wonder if you will break as easily as he did."
She flinched at the touch, her skin prickling with fear and fury. "Let me go."
Lucien smiled. "No."
The single word dropped like a stone.
"You will stay here, Elara. Until I decide what to do with you. Until I decide what price you will pay. You will obey my rules. You will learn my ways. And maybe, if you are very clever, you will survive."
She stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What do you want from me?"
Lucien stepped back, folding his arms. His gaze swept over her, thoughtful and measuring.
"For now?" he said. "I want you dressed. Breakfast is waiting. We have much to discuss."
Elara tightened her grip on the sheet. "I am not coming with you."
Lucien arched a brow. "Are you going to stay in that bed forever, little painter? Clutching sheets like a frightened child? You are stronger than that. I can see it. Do not waste my patience."
Silence stretched between them.
Elara felt her resolve tremble. But she could not remain here, waiting for fear to consume her. She needed to see this place. To understand the rules of this prison if she ever hoped to escape it.
Slowly, carefully, she slid from the bed. Her feet touched the cold marble floor. She stood, the sheet held tight against her chest like armor.
Lucien watched, his smile deepening.
"Good," he said softly. "There is fire in you after all."
A maid appeared at the door, her head bowed. She held a simple dress in muted gray.
Elara hesitated.
"Put it on," Lucien said. His voice held no room for argument. "I will wait outside. Ten minutes. No more."
He turned, leaving the door open behind him.
Elara stared at the dress in the maid's hands. Simple. Modest. Designed to strip her of identity and pride. She swallowed her shame and reached for it.
The fabric was soft. Expensive. But it felt like chains.
When she emerged into the hall, Lucien was waiting.
His eyes moved over her slowly, taking in the new shape of her. A small smile touched his mouth.
"Better," he said. "Follow me."
She walked behind him, her heart pounding. The halls were vast and silent, filled with echoes of power. Paintings lined the walls. Ancient, beautiful, and terrible. Men in dark suits. Women in jewels. All of them staring down at her with empty eyes.
They reached a room filled with morning light. A table spread with food that smelled of sugar and salt. Croissants. Fruit. Coffee steaming in delicate cups.
Elara hesitated at the door.
"Sit," Lucien said.
She obeyed, perching at the edge of the chair.
Lucien poured coffee into a cup and placed it before her.
"Eat," he commanded.
She stared at the food, her stomach tight with fear.
"Do you think I will poison you?" Lucien asked softly. "If I wanted you dead, you would already be cold."
Her hands shook as she picked up the cup. The bitter taste of coffee burned her tongue.
Lucien sat across from her, watching. Waiting.
"Elara," he said at last, his voice quiet. "Do you know why you are really here?"
She looked up, anger and terror twisting inside her.
"Because of my father's sins," she said bitterly. "Because you want revenge."
Lucien shook his head.
"No. That is only part of the truth. You are here because I am curious."
"Curious?" she whispered.
He smiled, slow and dark.
"You were supposed to be hidden. Safe. Untouchable. But you came to me, walking into my city with your brushes and your paints, pretending the past did not exist. I could have ignored you. I should have. But I did not."
"Why?" Her voice broke.
Lucien leaned forward, his eyes shining like silver.
"Because you fascinate me."
Elara froze.
"You are your father's daughter. Born of betrayal. Raised in lies. Yet you walk the world as if you are innocent. As if the blood on your family's name does not stain your hands. I wonder how long you can pretend. How long until the truth breaks you."
"I am not him," she whispered fiercely. "I am not my father."
Lucien smiled again.
"We will see."
The room fell silent. The tension between them thick as smoke.
At last, Lucien stood.
"Come," he said. "There is something you must see."
Elara followed him down another long hall, past locked doors and cold statues. Her heart pounded with every step.
They stopped before a steel door.
Lucien unlocked it with a key from his pocket.
"Welcome to the truth," he said softly.
He pushed the door open.
Inside was a room filled with papers, photographs, and ledgers. Names and faces. Contracts. Blood and ink bound together.
Elara stared, horror flooding her chest.
"This is your father's legacy," Lucien said quietly. "The records of every deal, every betrayal. Proof of the lies he fed to the world. He sold secrets to my enemies. He destroyed my family's power. And now, you will learn every piece of it."
She shook her head. "No. This is madness. Lies. My father was not—"
Lucien caught her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"Open your eyes, Elara. Your father was no hero. He was a coward. A traitor. And now you are the price of his sins."
Tears burned her eyes.
"I do not believe you," she whispered.
Lucien released her.
"Then read," he said. "See for yourself."
He left her there, standing in the dark room of truth.
Elara turned, her fingers trembling as they brushed the old papers.
The faces of men she did not know. The signatures in familiar handwriting. Letters that spoke of betrayal.
Her father's name on every page.
Her heart cracked.
The world shifted.
And Elara Vale understood that her life would never be the same again.