Eloise didn't sleep.
How could she? Sleep belonged to people who received flowers, or perhaps heartfelt apologies, not... that. Now, sanity felt like a precious, fleeting commodity she guarded with wide, burning eyes.
Every time she closed them, the image of the velvet box flashed behind her eyelids. The impossible, sickening weight of it when Luciano pressed it into her hands. The slow, abrasive scrape of the plush fabric across the polished oak table.
And worst of all, Luciano's very sincere, beautiful, profoundly deranged smile as he said, his voice soft with pride, "The very things he cherished most."
The sheer, staggering horror of the act lodged itself in her chest like a second, cold heartbeat—a constant, suffocating reminder of the ruthlessness she now lived under.
So when Ian knocked softly at the double doors precisely at sunrise, Eloise was already sitting rigidly on the edge of the enormous bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, the luxurious silk of the duvet clutched around her shoulders like a useless shield.
"Miss Winters," Ian's polite, steady voice came through the wood, "breakfast is served. Mr. De La Vega is waiting."
She didn't answer. Her mind was already replaying the dinner, trapped in the loop of every terrible, calculated detail.
After giving her the box, Luciano had leaned back in his chair, a vision of aristocratic ease, as if gifting his fiancée a piece of mutilated organ was simply a charming dinner gesture.
Then, he had insisted she open it in front of him. When her fingers froze, slick with terror, he had reached across the table, his skin cool against hers, guiding her trembling hands to the clasp. His voice was low and coaxing, like he was teaching a girl how to unwrap a precious present from a devoted lover.
Only once her breath had shattered and her stomach had lurched violently with silent, suppressed nausea did he take the box back, his expression darkening with possessiveness.
"You won't keep it," he had said, placing the box securely out of sight. "Keeping it means you will be thinking about him. And I do not allow that kind of space in your mind."
Then—as if the world wasn't spinning wildly off its axis—he made her finish her entire dinner. All three courses. Including the delicate dessert, which he insisted on feeding her himself, pressing a final, rich macaron to her lips as if sealing a vow.
After the meal, he'd walked her back to her room, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back—calm, warm, the terrifying image of a devoted fiancé escorting his bride.
"I dislike sleeping apart from you," he had murmured at her door, brushing a cool thumb along her jawline, his eyes dark with predatory longing. "But I understand you need time to adjust. One week, Paloma. Seven days. Then, we share a room."
Her heart had slammed so hard against her ribs she thought it might break her ribcage. The simple threat of shared intimacy was more terrifying than the thought of prison.
Then he'd kissed her forehead—a slow, lingering, maddening press of his beautiful lips—and whispered, his voice dangerously soft, "Dream about me."
Then he left, his fox trotting silently at his heels, its tail flicking like the final punctuation to a threat dressed in luxurious affection.
Dream? She'd barely held her sanity together long enough to throw the bolt on the double doors behind him.
Her phone vibrating, had nearly given her a heart attack.
Jayla. Missed calls. Dozens of them. Texts demanding to know where she was, why she wasn't answering, asking if she was hurt.
Only then had Eloise remembered the mundane simplicity of her previous life—they were supposed to go clubbing. A cheap therapy session. A freedom celebration from William. All before Luciano's men had snatched her off her stoop and carried her into a nightmare dressed in silk and diamonds.
She had managed to text back, stiff-fingered, her resolve solidifying:
I'll explain when I see you. Don't worry.
Not because she could ever explain the depths of this terror. But because she planned to use that meeting as her chance to run.
Somehow.
Somewhere.
Before the seven days were up. Before it was too late and her mind accepted this gilded cage. She had no intention of living under his roof, no intention of adjusting to this new life as though sanity weren't slipping through her fingers like fine sand.
Now—back in the present, fueled by adrenaline and defiance—she forced herself out of bed, washed up, brushed her teeth, and dressed in a powdered blue silk robe. Her hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped her hairbrush twice.
Ian didn't speak during their walk down the corridor, but he kept glancing at her with a quiet, observational pity, as if expecting her to crumble into hysterics at any moment. She forced her spine straight, wishing she didn't look like someone who might.
The dining room was drenched in morning gold, sunlight spilling across the polished floors and through the sheer, lace-draped windows. The air smelled heavenly, a mix of fresh pastries, floral perfume, and roasted coffee.
Luciano was already seated.
Of course he was. He was always ahead of her, waiting.
He wore a crisp white shirt, the fabric impossibly expensive, the top two buttons undone, revealing a tempting cut of collarbone and sun-kissed skin. His platinum hair, slightly mussed as though he'd recently run his hands through it, caught the morning light like molten silver, giving him that effortless, aristocratic danger.
The fox rested on the velvet chair beside him, tail neatly coiled, silver eyes fixed on her like she was the morning's primary source of entertainment.
And the moment Luciano saw her, his entire face brightened, his smile transforming him into a picture of disarming, radiant warmth.
And that sudden, pure display of affection made Eloise want to throw the nearest, heaviest object—perhaps a crystal bowl—at his perfect, infuriating face.
"Good morning, mi corazón," he said, his voice warm and smooth as sunlight. "I trust you slept well."
Eloise stared at him with barely concealed, disbelief.
Slept well? After he'd casually handed her human remains like a wedding favor? He still had the nerve to smile, to ask?
She sat stiffly in the chair Ian had pulled out for her, the porcelain cold against her silk robe, and refused to answer. She fixed her gaze on a point beyond his shoulder. Maybe silence was safer than confronting his insanity.
Luciano didn't seem offended in the slightest. He returned to his coffee, treating it like the most important, demanding task of his day—a ritual she couldn't help but watch, even as she pretended not to.
He lifted the silver sugar tongs. Added exactly two spoonful of sugar.
Paused.
Tasted.
His expression darkened immediately. He frowned—an actual frown—a subtle contraction of the brows. Still not right. He added one more spoonful of sugar.
Tasted again.
Still not right. His frustration was palpable, almost childish.
He glared at the mug—an actual glare—as if the coffee had personally, grievously offended him.
Then, he added an obscene amount of heavy creamer—a thick, white river poured directly into the mug.
Finally—finally—his eyes lit up with a soft, satisfied glow. He took a long, deep sip.
So he's a sweet tooth, Eloise realized, startled. A deadly, obsessive, dangerously charming sweet tooth. It didn't fit his image—the cunning fox of the underworld, feared by many, yet secretly addicted to sugar like a fussy child.
The observation punched through her terror so unexpectedly, she almost forgot to look away.
Almost.
Because then his gaze lifted, catching her mid-stare.
Heat crawled up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson. She coughed, clutching at her napkin, pretending to adjust its folds, as if she hadn't just been intently studying his every move.
Luciano hid a soft chuckle behind his coffee mug, his eyes gleaming with knowing amusement.
"So," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice, abandoning the silence in favor of testing the waters. "I want to see my friend today. She must be worried about me since she didn't hear from me yesterday."
His response was instant and easy, flowing like water over stone.
"Of course, Paloma. I think that is an excellent idea for adjustment. You may take Marcus and Leo with you."
She froze, her fork halfway to her plate.
She had expected resistance, a negotiation, a long, drawn-out argument involving the police and arson charges.
Instead, he had simply… agreed?
Seeing her astonishment, Luciano smiled genuinely, a flash of white teeth that was both magnificent and terrifying. "What's with the surprise look on your face, mi corazón?"
He took his time taking a slow, satisfied sip of his sickly sweet coffee. "You are my fiancée, not a prisoner. You have the run of the estate and the city, provided you have my security detail with you."
Suspicion, sharp and metallic, prickled down her spine, eclipsing the fleeting relief. She opened her mouth to argue against the surveillance—
"But," Luciano said softly, setting his mug down with a small clink and fixing her with those icy blue-gray eyes that saw entirely too much, "since you want to visit your friend, I have a single question I need answered first."
Her stomach plummeted, the familiar cold weight of dread settling. She recognized the pivot. The trap.
"Tell me, Eloise," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his tone dropping from pleasant host to absolute inquisitor. "Why did you leave your house and your mother… just to live alone?"
All air evaporated from her lungs. Her carefully constructed defenses crumbled to dust.
Her blood went instantly cold. Her fingers tightened painfully on the fork, the metal biting into her palm.
No. No, he couldn't know that. He couldn't. Nobody knew except—
Her heart hammered so violently she felt the frantic pulse throbbing in her throat and behind her eyes. This was not a question about money or William; this was about the trauma that defined her.
"Wh—what?" She breathed, trying desperately to mask her profound panic and confusion.
Luciano didn't blink, his expression still soft, still serene.
"Your mother," he repeated quietly, gently, like a doctor diagnosing a fatal illness. "Why did you leave her house? Why did you stop speaking to her? Tell me, Paloma."