Sleep abandoned Elara that night.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over—the way Adrian's voice had roughened, the heat of his breath against her skin, the restraint that had felt more dangerous than any touch.
Some lines were more perilous when they were not crossed.
Morning arrived without mercy.
The house returned to its polished rhythm, as if the tension of the night before had never existed. Staff moved efficiently. Guards exchanged quiet updates. The Moretti machine functioned as it always did.
Elara moved through it like someone learning a new gravity.
She felt Adrian before she saw him again.
In the training room.
The sound of impact drew her in—controlled violence echoing through the space. She paused in the doorway, breath catching.
Adrian stood shirtless in the center of the room, fists wrapped, muscles coiled as he struck the heavy bag with brutal precision. Each blow landed with intent, as if he were trying to punish something that would not yield.
Himself.
She should have turned away.
She didn't.
He sensed her presence and stopped abruptly. His chest rose and fell, skin glistening with sweat. Their eyes met.
A beat.
Then he reached for his shirt and pulled it on without comment.
"I didn't know anyone was in here," she said.
"You weren't supposed to be."
That word again.
She stepped inside anyway. "You keep saying that."
His mouth tightened. "You keep proving me wrong."
They stood a few feet apart, tension vibrating in the space between them.
"You're avoiding me," she said.
"For good reason."
"Say it."
He exhaled slowly. "Because wanting you makes me reckless."
The honesty startled her.
She swallowed. "I didn't ask you to want me."
"No," he said quietly. "But you exist."
The truth of it sent a shiver through her.
She glanced at his hands—knuckles bruised, skin split. "You're hurt."
"It'll heal."
She crossed the distance before he could stop her and reached for his hand. The contact was light, instinctive.
Adrian froze.
"Elara," he warned.
"Just for a moment."
Her fingers brushed his knuckles, gentler than the world had ever been to him. His breath hitched—barely, but she felt it.
The room seemed to tilt.
He closed his hand around hers.
Not possessive.
Not yet.
But the grip was firm, grounding, as if he were anchoring himself to that single point of contact.
"This is a mistake," he said hoarsely.
"Then why does it feel like relief?"
His thumb brushed her pulse before he could stop himself.
The touch was fleeting.
Devastating.
He released her hand abruptly and stepped back.
"We can't do this," he said. "Not like this."
She nodded, though her heart protested. "I know."
They stood there, breathing the same air, pretending it was enough.
Later that afternoon, Luca announced a dinner.
"A formal one," he said. "Important guests."
Translation: scrutiny.
Elara dressed carefully, choosing a gown that was elegant but modest. She pinned her hair back, practiced her smile, prepared herself for the performance.
When she descended the staircase, conversation paused.
Adrian stood near the fireplace.
His gaze found her instantly.
The look he gave her was not desire.
It was something deeper.
Regret.
During dinner, Luca barely spoke to her except to correct her posture, her phrasing, her place at the table. Each small reprimand chipped away at her composure.
Adrian watched in silence.
Too much silence.
When Luca's hand tightened around her wrist beneath the table, Elara stiffened. The pressure wasn't painful—but it was deliberate.
A reminder.
Adrian stood.
The scrape of his chair was loud in the sudden quiet.
"That's enough," he said calmly.
Luca looked up, startled. "Sit down."
"No."
Every eye turned to them.
"You don't touch her like that," Adrian continued.
"She's my fiancée."
"She's a person."
The room held its breath.
Don Alessandro's gaze flicked between his sons.
Luca laughed sharply. "This is about control, not concern."
Adrian leaned forward, voice low and lethal. "Take your hand off her."
Slowly, Luca released her.
The silence that followed was dangerous.
Adrian sat back down, as though nothing had happened.
But Elara's hands were shaking.
That night, she stood in the doorway of the guest wing, uncertain. Adrian appeared beside her as if summoned.
"You shouldn't be alone right now," he said.
"Neither should you."
A pause.
Then he nodded once. "Five minutes."
They stood on the balcony, city lights shimmering below.
"I can't keep pretending I don't feel this," she said softly.
He looked at her, expression torn. "And I can't keep pretending I won't destroy everything if I give in."
She stepped closer. Close enough to feel his warmth. Not touching. Not yet.
"What happens," she whispered, "if we don't?"
His voice was barely a breath. "Then this will kill us slowly."
His hand lifted—hovered near her cheek—then fell.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Elara knew it in her bones.
Some temptations did not announce themselves with fire.
They arrived quietly—
and waited.
— End of Chapter 5 —