Florence. Night into early dawn.
The card sat in the center of the table like a question she was too afraid to ask.
Aanya stared at it long after the rain stopped, long after the sounds of the city had faded into a wet hush. Her apartment had grown quiet, so quiet she could hear the click of the ceiling fan's rotation and the faint hum of her own pulse.
When you're ready to stop surviving.
She traced the words again and again with her index finger. They were embossed slightly raised and warmer than the paper itself, as if they'd absorbed heat from her skin. From her fear. From her curiosity.
She pushed the card away. Pulled it back. Pushed it again.
She hadn't eaten all day, but her stomach turned at the thought. She poured herself a glass of cheap red wine instead and drank it too fast, like it might wash away her indecision. The alcohol burned like truth.
Across the room, one of her canvases leaned against the wall—unfinished. A sketch of a faceless man, shoulders tense, hands caught mid-reach, like he was about to pull something from her.
Or take something.
She stood and walked to the easel. Picked up her brush.
And froze.
Because the man she wanted to paint now—he wasn't faceless.
His features were already mapped in her mind. The stern mouth. The eyes like storm-slick gold. The hair pushed back with fingers that knew what control meant. She could paint Leonhart Moretti in her sleep—and that terrified her.
She set the brush down again.
Her heart pounded. Her thoughts wouldn't settle.
So she did what she always did when she didn't know how to feel—
She painted.
By the time the sky turned the color of ash, the floor was covered in paper.
Quick sketches. Fragments. Eyes, mostly. Mouths half-open. Hands gripping wrists. A jawline too sharp to be soft, too soft to be safe. She painted him in fragments, because that's how he came to her: in pieces, flashing like warnings.
It was only when she collapsed onto the floor, panting, that she realized how much time had passed.
The light had changed.
And the card still sat on the table, patient as ever.
She stood, slow and aching, and walked over. Opened her jacket. Reached into the hidden inner seam and pulled out the second card—the one she hadn't noticed until hours after he'd handed her the first.
Black. Smooth. Sleek. With a number printed in silver ink.
She didn't dial it right away. She stared at it. Memorized it. Let it settle into her chest like ink into paper.
Then she walked to the window and opened it wide.
The city hadn't stopped. Florence pulsed beneath her like it always had—warm and indifferent. It didn't care about her. Not her pain, not her talent, not her hunger.
She closed her eyes and dialed.
The line clicked after the first ring.
No greeting. Just silence. And breath.
She whispered, "Is this real?"
A pause. Then: "It's whatever you want it to be."
His voice.
Low. Intimate. As if he was speaking directly into her skin.
"I didn't agree to anything," she said.
"You called," he replied. "That's the first agreement."
She didn't argue.
"I want to understand," she said.
"You don't. Not yet. But you will."
A beat of silence passed.
"Meet me," he said. "Tomorrow. I'll have a car waiting at 8 p.m."
"Where?"
"You'll know."
The line went dead.
The next day dragged like time had something to prove.
Aanya couldn't paint. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop imagining the way he'd sounded—like a man who never had to explain himself. Like someone who'd already decided that silence was more powerful than persuasion.
She wanted to hate that.
Instead, she dressed with the precision of a woman preparing for war.
Black dress. High neckline. No cleavage. Long sleeves. A single silver chain at her throat. Hair brushed but not styled. Eyes darkened with kohl. Lips bare. She didn't want to look beautiful. She wanted to look… closed.
Unreadable.
Like him.
The car arrived at exactly 8:00 p.m. A black sedan, windows tinted, driver in a crisp suit. He didn't speak. Just opened the door.
The ride took her out of the center, past the stone streets and rust-stained churches, into a quieter part of Florence. She didn't ask where they were going.
Eventually, the car turned into a long, winding driveway. At the end, a villa.
Old. Grand. Lit by warm, golden sconces. Nothing flashy. Nothing modern. The kind of wealth that didn't need to show itself to know it was there.
The driver opened her door.
No instructions. No escort.
Just the heavy front doors ahead, slightly ajar.
She stepped inside.
The silence was immediate. Thick. Not empty—curated.
Warm lights glowed over dark floors. Velvet armchairs. A long hallway lined with books and old paintings. The scent of something earthy and spiced—cedarwood, wine, and something sharper she couldn't name.
She heard him before she saw him.
"Take your time," Leonhart said, voice echoing from somewhere deeper inside. "There's no rush."
She followed the sound.
Found him in a room lit only by a fireplace. He sat in a leather armchair, one leg crossed, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the forearms.
He didn't rise when she entered. He only gestured to the chair across from him.
She sat.
"You look like you've made a decision," he said.
"I haven't."
"But you came."
"That's not the same thing."
He tilted his head, amused. "You'll learn. In my world, actions are always louder than answers."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "What exactly is your world?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Control. Obsession. Ownership. But never without consent."
His words sank like teeth.
"I'm not someone who can be owned."
"I know."
"But you're asking for it anyway."
"I'm offering it."
She stared into the fire. Let its light flicker across her face.
"And if I say no?"
"You leave. This place. This game. Me."
"That simple?"
His voice lowered. "No. It'll never be simple. But it will be final."
She didn't reply.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you want, Aanya?"
It was the first time he said her name. And it hit like a touch between her shoulder blades.
She met his eyes.
"I want the world to shut up long enough for me to breathe."
He studied her.
Then nodded, once. "Then breathe here. Until you decide."