Finally He took a step back, his cold, dark eyes boring into her teary, burning ones.
Then he spoke.
His voice was deep and cold, sending a shiver down her spine—yet only adding fuel to her anger and misery.
"Take her back," he said to the driver.
And with that, he turned away and left, abandoning her there without another glance.
The car ride was silent, the engine humming in the background. She sat rigidly, hands folded tightly in her lap, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Not wanting to cause further issues she had got in the car earlier.
Bitting her lips she dug her nails in her palm . As the scenes from earlier flashed before her eyes. trying hard to control the urge of bursting into tears right there. But no..
She couldn't let the driver see her cry—not here, not now.
Her mind spun, replaying everything that had happened. The cold, dark eyes, his step back, his words. The memory of someone innocent getting hurt because of her life… it pressed on her chest like a stone.
By the time the car pulled up to her apartment, she had managed to keep her composure, but the effort had left her trembling.
The moment the door closed behind her, the quiet of the apartment swallowed her.
She pressed her face into her hands, shoulders shaking as the tears finally fell.
Guilt clawed at her chest like a living thing. Because of me… she thought, her heart twisting painfully. Someone innocent… someone who did nothing wrong… got dragged into this and hurt.
Her sobs came in quiet, broken bursts. She had been living her life the way any normal person should—peacefully, minding her own world—and yet everything had shattered without warning.
"Why…" she whispered, her voice barely there.
"Why me?"
Her breath hitched as the question slipped out again, heavier this time.
"What did I ever do wrong?"
The words burned as they left her lips. There was no answer—only the cruel weight of reality pressing down on her chest. She wiped at her tears, but they kept falling, one after another, blurring her vision.
"I didn't ask for this…" she murmured shakily.
"I didn't hurt anyone… so why is this
happening?"
Her hands trembled as she hugged herself, trying to hold together the pieces of a life that had been torn apart for no reason at all. In that moment, she was nothing but innocent, confused, and drowning in a pain she never deserved.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the quiet of her apartment enveloped her like a heavy blanket.
She sank to the floor, back against the door, knees drawn up, hands clutching at her hair. The tears came all at once, hot and relentless, streaming down her face.
Her chest tightened painfully. Guilt twisted through her like a knife. Because of me… someone innocent… someone who didn't deserve any of this… got dragged into my mess.
She buried her face in her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Every quiet whisper of the engine, every shadow in the room, reminded her of what had happened. The thought of someone suffering because of her life, through no fault of her own, made her feel fragile, small, and utterly helpless.
"Why…" she whispered, voice cracking, muffled against her arms.
"Why me? What did I ever do wrong?"
The questions tumbled out again and again, raw and trembling. She rocked slightly, as though moving could carry away the weight on her chest—but it didn't.
Her hands shook as she pressed them against her face, trying to stop the tears, trying to steady her breath. But it was useless. Every sob tore through her, every heartbeat reminded her of the innocent person hurt because of her.
"I didn't ask for this… I didn't do anything wrong… why is this happening?" she murmured between broken cries.
For the first time, she let herself be completely human—guilt, sorrow, confusion, and helplessness spilling out in waves, unrestrained. In that moment, she was not strong. She was not brave. She was just a girl, innocent, pure, and crushed under the weight of everything that had touched her life.
.Several hours later, her eyes were puffy and red from all the crying. Her lips burned pink, cheeks still wet, and her hair hung in messy strands around her face.
She slowly got up, wiping at her tears, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
"No… I—I… I can do this," she whispered to herself, voice trembling but growing steadier.
"I have to… I, Marina Elisabetta Rossi… won't let him win. I won't let him break me."
Her words were broken, jagged, yet filled with a stubborn determination that burned from deep within her. Even after everything, even after the pain and guilt, she refused to surrender.
Sitting in his office, Liam Alessandro Moretti surveyed the city below, the lights of Italy stretching endlessly, twinkling like stars caught in the night. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls enclosed him, yet nothing outside could rival the power and control radiating within this room.
Rich, dark wood panels lined the walls, polished to a mirror-like shine, reflecting the faint glow of a crystal chandelier above. Every corner held the scent of leather and aged mahogany, of wealth accumulated and wielded with precision. A sleek, black marble desk dominated the center, its surface nearly bare except for a single photograph delicately placed in the center—her.
He sat behind it, one leg crossed over the other, posture perfect, like a king on his throne. In his hand, a crystal glass of amber liquor caught the light as he lifted it to his lips, the liquid swirling lazily, reflecting both warmth and danger. His eyes, dark and unreadable, never left the photograph.
It was her—the innocent, fragile face that had managed to ignite a storm within him. He turned the frame slightly in his hand, studying her, memorizing her, as if possession could be sealed with a gaze alone.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, both cruel and appreciative.
Every inch of the office spoke of empire and dominion—Italian power that stretched across continents, a corporation bending the markets, a mafia that ruled the underground—but tonight, none of it mattered. Only her.
He leaned back in the leather chair, the low hum of the city below like a quiet chorus to his contemplation. One leg remained crossed over the other, hand tightening ever so slightly around the glass, knuckles pale. A king, unchallenged, yet entirely captivated, haunted by a photograph that should have meant nothing…A mere girl. but meant everything.
He placed the glass carefully on the desk, eyes still locked on her photograph. Her face seemed to glow under the dim light, and for a long moment, he didn't look away.
Finally, he reached for a black, expensive cigar—the kind only the most powerful men smoked—and lit it, the ember casting a faint glow against his sharp features. He brought it to his lips, inhaling slowly, letting the smoke curl into the air, a dark, tangible presence.
With deliberate care, he set the photograph back on the desk and finally tore his gaze away from her face with much difficulty .
Rising from the chair, he straightened his posture, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cigar.
He moved to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, the night city sprawled below, a sea of lights glittering like distant stars. Long puffs of smoke escaped his lips, each one slow, controlled, and deliberate.
The black suit clung perfectly to his tall, muscular yet lean frame, emphasizing strength, elegance, and dominance in equal measure.
He exhaled another plume, dark eyes fixed on the city as if seeing not just buildings, but the world under his command. A king, unshaken, untouchable, yet haunted by a single photograph on his desk.