Night in the Moretti estate fell like velvet, soft and dark and full of secrets.
Elara could not sleep.
She sat by the window, her knees drawn to her chest, staring out at the moonlit garden below. The roses glowed pale in the silver light. Somewhere, far beyond the iron gates, freedom breathed.
But here, in this gilded cage, something else stirred.
A knock came.
Soft. Careful.
She stiffened.
The door creaked open.
Lucien.
He stood there, dressed not in his usual tailored suit but in a dark shirt, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. No guards. No mask of power.
Just him.
"May I?" he asked, his voice low.
Elara hesitated. Then nodded.
He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. No command. No threat.
Only silence.
Lucien crossed to the fireplace and stirred the low-burning embers into flame. Warm light filled the room, chasing the shadows to the corners.
"You could not sleep," he said softly.
Elara shook her head.
"Nor could I."
He turned, watching her as if seeing her for the first time.
"Do you know what this room once was?" he asked, moving toward her.
She frowned.
"My sister's," Lucien murmured. "When she was alive."
Elara's heart tightened.
"Sister?"
He gave a faint, bitter smile.
"Marina. Younger than me. Full of music and light. She played the piano there." He gestured to the far wall where dust covered a silent grand piano. "Filled this house with sound. Until she could not anymore."
"What happened to her?" Elara asked, her voice barely above a breath.
Lucien's eyes darkened.
"She trusted the wrong man. He made promises. Sweet, gentle lies. And when she gave him her heart, he took everything else and left her broken."
His jaw clenched.
"She drowned herself in the fountain. Just there." He pointed toward the garden beyond the window. "On the first winter snow. I found her. Cold. Gone."
A long silence fell.
Elara stared at him, the pieces shifting in her mind. The loneliness. The obsession with control. The quiet rage that lived in his bones.
"You think I am him," she whispered. "You think I will betray you like he betrayed her."
Lucien's gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable.
"Do you blame me?" he asked softly. "For fearing trust? For holding too tightly when everything else has slipped through my hands?"
Elara did not answer. Her throat closed.
He moved closer.
"When you ran this morning, I saw him in you. His shadow. His smile. His lies. I punished you for his ghost, not for your crime."
His hand reached out, hesitated, then brushed a lock of hair from her face.
"I punished the wrong person."
The world tilted.
Lucien Moretti, the devil in velvet, the tyrant with cold eyes, was standing before her not as a captor—but as a man. A man carved hollow by grief.
"You cannot keep me forever," Elara said gently. "No matter how strong your grip. I am not him. I will never be him."
His hand lingered at her cheek, his fingers trembling the smallest bit.
"I know," he whispered. "But fear does not listen to reason."
Her heart ached.
"Let me go," she said softly. "Before this becomes worse. Before you lose more."
His lips curved in something like sorrow.
"I cannot. Not yet."
He stepped back, turning toward the window.
"The man coming tomorrow—he is dangerous. More dangerous than you understand. If I let you go now, he will find you. Use you. Hurt you."
Lucien glanced at her over his shoulder.
"I am trying to protect you, Elara. In the only way I know how."
A bitter laugh escaped her.
"By caging me? By breaking me piece by piece?"
He flinched.
"I do not know any other way."
The truth hung between them like fragile glass.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Elara rose, crossing the room until she stood beside him at the window.
"You could," she said quietly. "You could learn. If you let yourself."
Lucien turned to face her. Close now. Close enough that she could see the faint scar at the edge of his jaw. The shadow of sleepless nights under his eyes.
"You are brave," he murmured. "Foolish. But brave."
She met his gaze steadily.
"And you are not made of stone, Lucien. No matter how hard you try to pretend."
His hand lifted again, fingertips brushing her cheek.
"Careful," he said softly. "I am dangerous when touched."
"So am I."
A flicker of something passed between them. Heat. Fear. Curiosity.
And something deeper.
He stepped back with a breath, breaking the moment.
"You will dine with me again tomorrow," he said quietly. "Before our guest arrives. I want you prepared. Strong."
Elara nodded.
"I will be ready."
His eyes lingered on her, as if memorizing the shape of her courage.
Then he turned and slipped from the room, the door closing gently behind him.
The silence returned.
But it felt different now. Warmer. Softer. Full of threads that pulled tight between them.
Elara touched the place where his hand had rested on her cheek.
Lucien Moretti's mask had slipped.
And beneath it, she had seen not a monster—but a man.
A broken, dangerous man.
But human.
Her quiet rebellion burned brighter.
This, too, was a weapon.
And when the game began tomorrow, she would know where to strike.
Not with fear.
But with understanding.
With truth.
And maybe....just maybe....with mercy.