Chapter Twenty-Nine
Damiano
I’ve made a decision.
I can’t keep her hidden anymore, not because of pressure or threats, but because I don’t want to. She is mine, and it is time the world knew it.
I step into the condo and freeze when I catch sight of her.
She is curled up on the couch, a book forgotten in her lap, her legs tucked under her.
She is so fucking beautiful she steals my breath away for a second.
Her long hair is up in a messy bun and she is wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts.
I inhale sharply, thinking about dragging my tongue all the way up her legs to her pussy.
She looks up when she hears me, wary, like she can feel something has shifted in me. She is not wrong. I don’t waste time.
“There’s a fundraising gala tomorrow night,” I say, shrugging off my coat. “You’ll be coming with me.”
She blinks, then sits upright. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I toss the keys onto the table and walk toward her. “You’ll wear the dress I send. Hair, makeup… The works. I’ve arranged for a team to come prepare you.”
She stands now, the book slipping to the floor with a soft thud. “No.”
I pause. “No?”
She crosses her arms, chin lifting defiantly. “I’m not going to be paraded around like some arm candy in front of your criminal friends and political puppets. I’d rather be locked up in here forever.”
My jaw clenches. “You already are locked up in here.”
Her eyes flash. “Exactly. So let’s not pretend this is something it’s not.”
I take a slow step forward, closing the space between us. “This is exactly what it is. You are mine. And the time has come for everyone to realize that.”
She laughs, bitter and sharp. “Oh, how romantic. What an honor, to be displayed like a possession.”
“You think that’s what this is?” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “You think I’m doing this to show off?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she snaps, her voice shaking. “But I know what I won’t do. I won’t smile and pretend like this is some fairytale while you parade me around like your mistress.”
“You’re not a mistress,” I growl, stepping closer.
“Oh, really? What am I then?” she shoots back. “You haven’t exactly defined this arrangement, Damiano. Am I your prisoner? A pet? A pretty face to soften your reputation? Oh wait, I remember now. I’m your whore.” She sneers.
I let the words hit. Let her get it all out. Then I lean in just enough that she has to tilt her chin to keep eye contact. “You are mine,” I say simply.
Her breath hitches, fury and confusion warring in her expression. “I don’t want to be yours if it means being treated like something you own,” she bites out.
“You already are,” I say, softer now. “And you are coming to the gala.”
“No.”
I nod, once. “Yes.”
She exhales through her nose like she might actually explode. “You are infuriating.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
I turn away before I say something I’ll regret.
This isn’t a negotiation. She doesn’t see it yet, but this is how I will protect her.
This is how I legitimize her place beside me.
She thinks she is being paraded—what she doesn’t know is that this is the safest she will ever be.
No one touches what’s mine. Not once she is seen.
Because when she walks into that gala on my arm, the world will know.
And no one—no enemy, no rival, no woman I’ve ever known—will ever doubt who she belongs to.
* * * *
Lily
The knock on the bedroom door is polite, but I know it’s not a request. The styling team enters like a whirlwind—four professionals with hushed voices and hands that immediately start measuring, assessing, fluffing and fussing.
I sit there frozen, wrapped in a robe, glaring at the vanity mirror like I could burn it down with my stare.
Infuriating, overbearing jerk! I can’t believe how he controls my life, how he controls me, like I am something he owns.
“This will look stunning on you,” the stylist purrs, holding up an emerald green silk gown that glitters subtly under the light. “Off-shoulder, dramatic slit, perfect for your frame.”
I don’t respond. If I speak, I might scream.
I hate this. I hate the pampering. I hate the way they coo about how I’ll “steal the show”.
I hate how carefully they pin my hair back, curling a few strands to perfectly frame my face, as if I am some doll about to be displayed in a glass box.
But more than that, I hate how a small, shameful, part of me wants to know what I’ll look like when they’re done.
Makeup follows next. Brushes sweep across my skin, over my lips, tinting them a shade of deep red.
My eyes are sculpted until they look dangerous and dramatic.
When I dare glance at my reflection again, I pause.
I still look like myself, but at the same time I see a stranger looking back.
I see the woman Damiano wants the world to see.
“Perfect,” the lead stylist says with a flourish. “You’re ready, darling.”
I stare at my reflection one last time, then look away. No, I’m not.
Before I can spiral any further, the door creaks open behind me and the team files out. Then I feel him before I see him. His presence shifts the air in the room like gravity bending toward him.
“Little flower,” he says. I turn around.
His steps falter.
For once, Damiano Santaluccia, cold-blooded, untouchable, always in control, looks completely disarmed.
His lips part, like he is trying to say something, but no sound comes out.
His gaze rakes over me with admiration and a fire I don’t know how to interpret.
It makes my pulse race and my skin burn in places I wish it wouldn’t.
He swallows hard. “You look…” he starts, then pauses, raking a hand through his hair. “Dio. You’re beautiful.”
A hot flush creeps up my neck and I immediately put the mask back on. “Well, I’m glad your investment paid off,” I mutter, arms crossed.
He steps closer, gently brushing a strand of hair off my shoulder. “This isn’t about the dress. Or the team. Or any of that.”
“No?” I shoot back, bitter. “Then what is it about, Damiano? Possession? Ego? Showing off the woman you keep locked in your penthouse like a pet?”
He frowns, his jaw tightening. “I’m showing them who you are.”
I glare at him. “And what is that, exactly?”
“My equal.”
I falter for a breath. That…isn’t what I expected. Not in a million years.
But before I can figure out how to respond, he extends his hand. “Walk beside me tonight, Lily.”
I stare at it for a long second. Then I take it. And as his fingers close around mine, a chill runs down my spine, because despite every warning in my brain, some foolish part of me wants to believe him. Wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not being paraded.
Maybe…I’m being claimed.