Chapter 8 – The Man Who Doesn't Run
(Lucien Moretti's POV)
The Moretti headquarters stood like a monument to power in the heart of the city.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls reflected the skyline, sharp and merciless. Black marble floors stretched beneath Italian leather chairs. Every detail in my office was deliberate — the dark oak desk imported from Milan, the gold-trimmed decanter resting on a crystal tray, the silent security monitors lining one entire wall.
Control.
Everything here obeyed me.
Except her.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin as reports lay scattered across the desk — financial statements, offshore transfers, encrypted movements of money that had no business existing.
Her name was on them.
Aria Reyes.
Clean history. Clean records. No prior criminal activity.
And yet my money moved through accounts tied to her identity.
Impossible.
Unless she was smarter than she looked.
Or someone close to her was.
I tapped my fingers once against the desk.
"Go check on her," I instructed two guards standing near the door.
They nodded immediately and exited.
Silence returned.
I glanced at the surveillance feed briefly — empty corridors, disciplined staff, controlled environments.
Thirty minutes later, the guards returned.
"Well?" I asked without looking up.
One of them cleared his throat. "She's in the garden, boss."
The garden.
Of all places.
"Doing what?"
They hesitated.
"…Eating."
My pen stopped moving.
I slowly lifted my eyes.
"Eating?" I repeated.
"Yes, boss."
A pause.
"Eating what exactly?"
"She made herself breakfast."
Silence.
I blinked once.
"She… made herself breakfast?"
"Yes, boss."
I leaned back in my chair and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling.
What kind of woman is she?
In this house, chefs existed. Staff existed. Anything she wanted would be handed to her before she even thought to ask.
And yet she made cereal.
Cereal.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
God.
"She said the food wasn't good enough," the second guard added carefully.
My jaw tightened.
Of course she did.
For the first time in years, I felt something dangerously close to disbelief.
Most women trembled in my presence.
Most people avoided breathing too loudly around me.
And this one?
She criticized my food. Called me crazy. Walked away from me mid-breakfast. Made her own cereal. And now sat peacefully in my garden like she owned the estate.
One of the guards shifted slightly. "Should we go get her immediately, boss?"
My first instinct was yes.
Bring her here. Make her explain. Make her sit across from me until she cracked.
But the image flashed in my mind—
Her standing there earlier. Unapologetic. Unafraid. Mocking.
If I sent guards for her now, it would mean one thing.
That I wanted her presence.
That I was thinking about her.
I straightened slightly.
"No," I said calmly.
They blinked.
"No?"
"No. Do not disturb her."
They exchanged the smallest glance.
Their boss.
Lucien Moretti.
Refusing to summon someone.
Avoiding someone.
For the first time.
"Return to your posts."
"Yes, boss."
When they left, I remained still.
Why didn't I call her?
Because I don't chase.
I don't explain myself.
And I certainly don't run from women.
Yet—
I found myself staring at the security monitor that showed the garden.
There she was.
Sitting on the stone bench, sunlight touching her hair.
Eating from a bowl.
Completely unbothered.
In my territory.
In my world.
Unshaken.
Who are you, Aria Reyes?
And why are you not afraid?
For the first time in years—
I felt something unfamiliar.
Curiosity.
Later That Night
(Aria's POV)
The study smelled like old books and expensive wood polish.
Not like a bedroom.
Definitely not like comfort.
I dragged the spare bedding across the leather couch for what felt like the hundredth time.
"This is torture," I muttered under my breath.
The so-called "bed" was barely forgiving. My back had already declared war against the Moretti estate.
"Unbelievable," I continued whispering to myself as I fixed the sheets. "Rich man. Billionaire. Criminal mastermind probably. But can't provide a decent mattress."
I fluffed the pillow aggressively.
"Super crazy man."
The word slipped out again.
Crazy.
I laid down finally, staring at the ceiling.
Why did he announce I was his fiancée?
Without telling me?
Without asking me?
My chest tightened slightly.
It wasn't fear.
It was something else.
Dangerous.
Confusing.
"He's mentally unstable," I concluded quietly. "Yes. That's it. Huge mental problem."
Satisfied with my diagnosis, I turned to my side.
And eventually…
Sleep took me.
Morning came violently.
Splash.
Ice-cold water hit my face.
I gasped sharply, bolting upright.
"What the hell—?!"
Water dripped from my hair onto the sheets.
I blinked rapidly.
And there he was.
Lucien Moretti.
Standing over me.
Holding a bottle of water.
Calm.
Composed.
Unapologetic.
My breathing was heavy.
"What is wrong with you?!" I snapped, pushing wet hair out of my face.
He said nothing.
Just stared.
My eyes narrowed.
No.
This man has a problem.
A real problem.
"A huge mental problem," I muttered under my breath, fuming.
He raised a brow slightly.
"What did you say?"
I crossed my arms, soaked and furious.
"I said you must be having some serious psychological issues." I murmured more to myself than to him then said loud "Nothing" I said.
Silence.
Then several maids entered.
Carrying bags.
Designer shopping bags.
Boxes.
Fabric covers.
Shoes.
Accessories.
They placed them neatly along the study table and stepped back.
I blinked.
"…Again?"
Lucien didn't look at them.
He was watching me.
Silk. Velvet. Designer labels I'd only seen online.
"What is this?" I murmured softly.