Florence. Leonhart's private villa. Night.
The silence between them pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Aanya didn't know how long she sat across from him in the glow of that fire, watching the flames cast golden ridges over his face. Leonhart Moretti didn't move like men who had to earn space—he inhabited it like it belonged to him by blood.
And yet, he wasn't arrogant.
He was worse.
He was still.
Still like stone. Like control. Like a man who knew how to wait until the world bent to him.
"What do you see," he said suddenly, "when you look at me?"
His voice pulled her back. She blinked.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly.
"You will."
He rose then—not slowly, not abruptly, just precisely. Like the fire, he didn't rush. He walked to a small cabinet built into the wall and opened a drawer. From it, he took a black folder.
He returned, placed it on the table between them, and sat.
Aanya stared at it. Leather-bound. Thick.
Not art. Something colder.
She looked at him. "What is this?"
He leaned back. "An offer."
She didn't touch it.
"Read it."
She opened the folder slowly. The first page was blank. The second was not.
It was a contract.
Her name already printed at the top.
AGREEMENT OF EXCLUSIVE COMPANIONSHIPTerm: Thirty days.Compensation: Upon acceptance, immediate release of €50,000. Additional provisions for duration.Nature: Private. Consensual. Erotic. Non-romantic.Rules:– No lies.– No outside partners.– No discussion of the agreement to third parties.– No expectation of permanence.
Her throat dried.
"You think I'm a prostitute?" she said, voice quiet but hard.
"No," Leonhart replied. "Prostitutes sell sex. I'm offering you a controlled environment to surrender, without fear, without consequences. And in return—"
"You pay me."
"I invest in you."
She laughed once—sharp and bitter. "And what exactly do I give you in return, Mr. Moretti?"
He didn't flinch.
"Control."
The word hung between them like a knife.
"I don't do submission," she snapped.
"I don't do cruelty," he answered.
That stopped her.
He reached across the table, pulled a second sheet from the folder, and slid it to her.
This one wasn't typed. It was handwritten.
I reserve the right to stop at any time.I retain autonomy over my body, voice, and will.No contract overrides my consent.
She stared at it.
"I drafted that part," he said. "Not my lawyers."
She looked up, trying to read him. "Why?"
His expression didn't change. "Because I don't want obedience. I want honesty. I want tension. I want… submission freely chosen."
Her heart was racing. She hated how much his words made sense. How much her body leaned toward that warmth and danger.
"How many others?" she asked.
He paused.
"Two," he said.
"Were they like me?"
"No one is like you."
She swallowed. Heat rose to her face, not from flattery, but from the sincerity in his voice.
"I'm not yours to control," she whispered.
"But you want to be someone's," he said. "Just for a moment. Just enough to breathe again."
She stood abruptly, folder in hand. "I need time."
He didn't rise. He didn't chase.
"You have forty-eight hours. After that, the offer expires. I don't renegotiate."
She turned toward the door.
Then his voice again, low and sharp:
"Aanya."
She froze.
He didn't get up. Just stared into the fire.
"I don't want your soul. Just the part of you that aches."
Outside, the air bit colder than it should have for early summer. The driver was already waiting. He didn't ask questions when she slid into the car.
She clutched the folder like it might detonate.
Because part of her already knew:
She wasn't going to say no.
She didn't go home.
She walked the streets for hours, folder tucked under her arm, her body burning from the inside out.
Everything about it was wrong.
The man. The contract. The audacity.
But also…
The way he listened.The way he hadn't touched her—not once.The way he'd said "submission freely chosen" like he understood how little choice she'd had in anything else.
The world had taken everything from her—money, trust, safety, love.
Leonhart wasn't offering to fix that.
He was offering a controlled collapse. A place to fall where someone would catch her and name the drop.
Back at her apartment, she placed the folder on the table beside the black card.
She didn't open it again.
Didn't need to.
She simply whispered aloud, to no one:
"What happens if I say yes?"
No answer came.
Only the creak of the night, and the sound of her own heart, drumming against her ribs like it already knew.