Aria
The box arrived at precisely 5:47 p.m.—a sleek, matte black parcel wrapped with a crimson ribbon that looked far too expensive to be real.
Looking at the box on the box on her bed like she's expecting a bomb to explode in it, Aria reached for the letter that came with it.
The letter looked like it was made from silk, and it smelled like pine and cocoa. Aria put the letter to her nose once again, and inhaled deeply. It smelled just like the man that sent it.
The handwriting on the letter looked like calligraphy. She read the sentence again.
"Dinner at 8. The driver will come and pick you up." The signature at the end of the letter was a simple "A.M", like he didn't need to specify more than that .
He obviously never needed to, his initials opened doors that her full name can never open. She opened the box, and her breath hitched at the goodness in the box.
Inside was a dress; no, a masterpiece. Midnight-blue silk dress that shimmered like water under moonlight, ankle length, backless, slit high up one leg. It was subtle but lethal. And nestled beside it was a delicate black velvet box and a pair of golden heels.
The heels looked like they were made with pure gold, and they glittered like diamonds.
She opened the black box, and gaped at the gift in it.
A choker. Thin gold, almost threadlike, with a single obsidian stone hanging in the center. Minimal. Intentional.
Valentina's heels clicked sharply on the wooden floor as she walked in, eyes narrowing the moment she saw the open black box on Aria's bed.
"Tell me that's not what I think it is."
Aria looked up from where she was admirimg the gold choker in the mirror. "If you think it's a dress from Alessio, then yes. It is."
Valentina's expression darkened. She crossed the room in two steps, grabbing the card with sharp fingers.
"Are you insane?" she hissed. "This wasn't part of the plan."
Aria turned, calm but firm. "We said we'd wait for an opportunity. This is it."
"No," Valentina snapped. "An opportunity is information, not dinner dates with a man who could snap your neck with one hand and still make it look poetic."
Aria folded her arms. "I know what I'm doing."
"You think you know. Alessio Moretti doesn't play fair. He doesn't even play by rules, he writes them, Aria.
There was silence between them, tension thick as velvet.
"I need to get close," Aria said softly. "Close enough to see what he's hiding."
Valentina stared at her best friend, torn between admiration and fear.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice low. "But if he hurts you—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
Aria walked over and picked up her clutch. "No. But I'm betting he doesn't want to."
Valentina's jaw clenched.
"Don't fall for the looks and the smirk, Aria. You're not special to him. He's a game to you. And if you forget that, even for a second—he'll win."
Aria nodded once.
This was part of the game.
And she had to play to win.
---
7:58 PM
The car—a sleek black Maserati—waited outside like a glossy panther under the streetlight. Aria's boots clicked softly against the pavement as she walked toward it, her dress brushing her thighs like water.
She climbed in without hesitation. The driver, a man with pale eyes and no expression, gave a silent nod before pulling away.
The city blurred outside her window, but her reflection held steady in the glass. Valentina had instead on doing her makeup, and she looked older, stronger, and dangerous.
She hoped he thought so, too.
---
8:17 PM
The restaurant wasn't a mere restaurant.
It was a private rooftop lounge above a members-only hotel—complete with fire pits, low lights, and violins playing somewhere in the background. There were no guests, no waiters milling about.
Just Alessio Moretti, standing at the edge of the rooftop with a glass of red wine in his hand, looking down upon the traffic in the city like a king watching over his empire.
He turned as she approached, eyes sweeping over her slowly.
"You're late," he said, lips curling.
"You said eight. You didn't say sharp."
"You're right." He extended his hand. "Still, I appreciate punctuality. And effort."
She didn't take his hand, just walked past him to the table already set for two. A low candle flickered in the middle, wine glasses catching the firelight.
"I wasn't sure if the dress would fit," he said, watching her take her seat.
"It fits," she replied, smoothing the silk over her legs. "Thank you."
He tilted his head, amused. "You are welcome. But why did you not wear the heels I picked for you? Is it not to your liking?"
"I don't feel like."
His smile deepened. "So, this is your little way of rebelling against me?"
She raised a brow. "Who said anything about rebellion?"
That earned a quiet chuckle. "Touché."
"So," Alessio said, swirling the wine in his glass, "tell me why you were really in that bookstore."
Aria sipped her water. "Maybe I like the smell of old paper."
"And the look of unread Marxist theory in your hands?" He smirked.
"Maybe I like pretending."
He leaned in slightly. "You're very good at pretending, Aria. Almost too good."
They fell into a moment of silence, the air charged with unsaid things. The violin music in the distance grew louder, or maybe the silence between them made it feel that way.
"I don't trust people who show up in bookstores pretending to read," he said at last.
"I don't trust people who send designer dresses to girls they barely know."
He raised a brow. "You wore it."
She met his gaze. "Because I like it, not because of you."
For a moment, Alessio just stared her. Not with affection or hatred. But with admiration,respect, maybe even curiosity.