6. Luca
Luca
The morning sun spills golden light over the ocean, cutting across the sleek glass windows of my bedroom. I stretch my fingers against the cool linen sheets, exhaling slowly as I let the silence settle around me.
It’s early. Too early.
But something keeps me awake.
Or rather—someone.
Gilly.
I picture her exactly where she was last night—locked away, fighting the inevitable.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
She can lock me out of her room. She can ignore me. But she’s forgetting something crucial.
She lives in my house now. And I don’t need permission to take what’s mine.
I push out of bed, rolling my shoulders as I cross the expansive suite toward my closet. Within minutes, I’m dressed—tailored black slacks, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms. No tie. No jacket.
No need for armor.
I already won.
By the time I step into the hallway, the estate is awake. Staff move quietly, setting the table, preparing for the day ahead.
And then—the first sign of resistance.
A maid lingers just outside the dining room, shifting on her feet.
The moment she sees me, she straightens, hands clasped in front of her.
“She won’t come down for breakfast, sir.” Her voice is careful, hesitant.
I stop.
My fingers flex at my sides.
Not in irritation.
In amusement.
I should be annoyed. Gilly’s stubborn streak has always been a pain in my ass.
But I won’t lie—I enjoy this.
I enjoy the fight.
I enjoy knowing that even now, even with nowhere to run, she’s still trying to resist.
I tilt my head, considering my options.
One—I let her starve until she comes crawling to me.Two—I drag her down here myself.Three—I remind her exactly what she’s up against.
I choose the latter.
With a slow smirk, I step past the maid and enter the dining room.
The long mahogany table stretches before me, her chair sitting empty.
I settle into my usual seat, resting one arm along the back of the chair beside me.
And then—I wait.
I let the silence stretch, let the weight of her absence settle into the air.
Let her feel it.
I sip my coffee, completely unbothered.
The estate is hers now, too—but only as much as I allow it.
And if she wants to play this game?
She’ll lose.
Minutes pass.
Then—another maid appears.
She hesitates before speaking. “She… she’s still refusing, sir.”
I exhale through my nose, shaking my head.
“Stubborn little thing,” I murmur, pushing back from the table.
The staff scurries away as I stand.
Time to remind Gilly exactly who holds the power here.
She’s in my house.Under my roof.And whether she likes it or not—she has nothing but me.
I find her in the library.
She’s curled up in an armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the ocean.
But she’s not admiring the view.
She’s brooding.
Plotting.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. Good. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t.
Her fingers are curled around the edge of the armrest, her knuckles tight. Barefoot, clad in one of the silk pajama sets my staff left for her.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
So I take my time.
The click of my shoes against the marble floors is the only sound as I approach.
She stiffens.
Then—her shoulders roll back.
She won’t turn first. Won’t acknowledge me.
I chuckle. Predictable.
I stop beside her chair, watching the way her nails dig into the fabric.
Without a word, I reach into my pocket and pull out two things.
I set them on the table beside her. Deliberate. Unrushed.
Her wedding ring.
And her phone.
She freezes.
Still doesn’t look at me.
I settle onto the couch across from her, stretching one arm along the back.
"Put it on," I murmur.
Her chin tilts, eyes flashing as they finally meet mine.
The storm in them is instant—fury, defiance, something sharp enough to cut.
"Not in a million years," she says, voice like steel.
I expected that answer.
So I reach back into my pocket.
Pull out my own phone.
And with one slow flick of my thumb, I scroll.
Her gaze flickers. Just for a second.
She sees what I want her to see.
Her bank account balance.
Zero.
Her credit cards.
Frozen.
Her contacts list.
Gone.
Her lifelines?
Erased.
I hold it up, letting her absorb it. Letting it sink in.
"You’re officially locked out," I say smoothly. "No money. No calls. No escape."
Her lips part. A sharp inhale. Her pulse flutters at her throat.
But she recovers quickly. Too quickly.
"Of course you did this," she mutters, tilting her head, voice biting. "I should’ve known."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"Yes, you should have."
The tension between us crackles.
Her hands tremble, but she shoves them into her lap, pressing them against her thighs like she can force the reaction away.
"You’re a monster," she whispers.
I smile.
"And you’re mine."
She flinches.
Just slightly.
But I see it.
And I feel it.
That tiny moment of doubt.
That flicker of fear.
She swallows, hard. Her eyes dart to her phone, as if she’s already thinking of ways around me.
There aren’t any.
I reach for the ring, rolling it between my fingers.
"Put it on," I repeat.
Her jaw tightens.
Her nails dig into her palms.
And then—she shoves the ring off the table, sending it clattering across the floor.
My smirk fades.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
I just watch her.
Because she wants me to snap.
She wants me to lose control.
But what she doesn’t realize?
I don’t play fair.
And I never lose.
I don’t pick up the ring.
I don’t move at all.
I just watch her.
Gilly’s chest rises and falls too quickly, her pulse hammering at her throat.
She expects an explosion. A reaction.
She wants me to snap, to grab her, to force the ring onto her hand.
But I don’t give her the satisfaction.
Instead, I lean back against the couch, draping my arm over the backrest, completely unbothered.
"You done?" I ask, my voice cool, measured.
Her lips part, like she’s ready to fight, but then she hesitates.
Because she wasn’t expecting that.
I smirk.
Patience is the best way to break a wild thing.
And my little hellcat? She’s still fighting with every breath.
But she’s not stupid.
She knows I have all the control.
She can shove rings across floors, hurl insults at me, glare at me with that fire in her eyes… but at the end of the day?
She’s in my house.
She has nothing.
No money. No phone. No escape.
Just me.
And when that realization sinks in—really sinks in?
She won’t have the strength to fight anymore.
Not in the ways that matter.
So I wait.
I let her sit with it.
The truth of her situation. The weight of it.
And then?
I stand.
Without a word, I turn and walk out.
Because her punishment?
It’s not in my hands.
It’s in hers.
Because now she gets to sit in this cold, empty house, with no one but me to rely on.
And when she’s ready to admit that?
I’ll be waiting.
I give her space. Let her stew.
But when dinnertime arrives?
She’s there.
Seated at the long mahogany dining table, across from me, her back straight, her expression locked down.
The chandelier overhead glows warm and golden, casting soft light over the lavish meal set between us.
Roast lamb. Garlic potatoes. Fresh vegetables. A bottle of vintage red wine.
An extravagant display. A silent reminder.
Everything she has now?
It comes from me.
And she hates it.
Her plate remains untouched.
Her hands rest in her lap, fingers curled into fists.
The staff lingers at the edges of the room, their gazes carefully averted.
They can sense the tension—the quiet, brutal war unfolding.
I reach for my wine glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a slow sip.
"Are you going to starve yourself, Gilly?" I ask, voice calm.
Her chin lifts.
"If it means not giving you what you want?" She leans forward, her voice sharp, razor-edged.
"Gladly."
I chuckle.
Because, of course, she’d rather suffer than bend.
But we both know how this ends.
I set my glass down, my fingers tapping lazily against the stem.
"Then I guess I’ll have to force-feed you."
Her chair scrapes back.
She stands abruptly, fury radiating off her in waves.
Good.
Let her fight.
I sit back, watching, waiting, as she turns—intending to leave.
But I’m faster.
In a breath, I’m behind her, my palm pressing flat against the door before she can pull it open.
She goes rigid.
Her breath stutters.
Her pulse pounds so hard, I can hear it.
I lean in, my mouth brushing just above her ear.
"Keep pushing me, little hellcat."
Her hands curl into fists.
She’s trembling.
Not from fear.
From rage.
From frustration.
From the knowledge that, no matter how hard she fights, I will always be one step ahead.
I drag my knuckles down the curve of her throat, feeling the rapid thud of her heartbeat beneath my touch.
She shudders.
She hates me.
She hates how she reacts to me.
I smirk.
"See what happens."