Dante walked in.

Liana’s POV

I barely slept. The previous night’s encounter, brief and chilling, had imprinted itself onto every nerve ending. The sheets, a luxurious silken white, smelled too clean, too sterile, like a hotel rather than a home. The mattress was too soft, swallowing me whole, leaving me feeling untethered in the vast, unfamiliar room. And the silence—the oppressive, echoing silence of the mansion—was too loud, amplifying the frantic beat of my own heart, the relentless churn of my thoughts.

And his voice… it wouldn’t leave my head. It coiled around my thoughts like a venomous serpent, whispering its insidious promise:

“You wouldn’t survive the lesson.”

I must have replayed it a hundred times, a cruel lullaby. Each syllable, each inflection, burned itself deeper into my bones, a scorching brand that marked me as his prey. It wasn't a threat of physical harm, not directly. It was something far more insidious, a promise of psychological torment, of being stripped bare and found wanting. The thought was both terrifying and, to my mortified surprise, strangely compelling. Part of me, the part I was ashamed to acknowledge, wondered what that "lesson" entailed, what dark corners of myself he intended to expose.

By the time the first tentative streaks of sunlight spilled through the sheer, ivory curtains, painting the opulent room in hues of soft gold, I felt hollowed out. Drained. Like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin, a stranger adrift in a strange new world. My reflection in the full-length mirror showed eyes shadowed with sleeplessness, a pallor to my skin that made me look fragile, breakable.

A soft, hesitant knock came at the door, pulling me from my morbid introspection.

“Liana?” my mom’s voice, cheerful and bright, utterly oblivious to the internal battle raging within me. “Sweetheart, time to get up. Come have breakfast before school.”

School. Right. My first day. A fresh hell awaited, filled with new faces and the impossible task of pretending to be normal.

I sat up, my spine stiff, a residual ache from the tension of the night. My sketchbook, my only real comfort, was still clutched tightly to my chest, a shield against the encroaching reality. My gaze drifted to the page from last night—the raw, untamed sketch of Dante, his dark eyes, his cruel mouth. And beneath it, the scrawled, desperate question I’d written in the dark: “Then teach me how to.” The sight of it made my stomach tighten into a knot of anxiety. What if he had seen it? What if he hadn’t? I wasn’t sure which scared me more – the thought of his knowing, or the thought of him not knowing, of carrying that secret burden alone.

Downstairs, a symphony of enticing aromas greeted me: the rich, buttery scent of fresh-baked croissants, the dark, invigorating aroma of espresso, and something savory, perhaps eggs or bacon. The mansion’s cavernous dining room was transformed this morning, bathed in the vibrant, optimistic glow of early sunlight bouncing off the immense glass walls that overlooked a sprawling, manicured garden. The long mahogany table, so intimidating last night, was already set with an array of crystal glasses, gleaming silver, and delicate porcelain plates. It looked almost inviting, a stark contrast to the glacial atmosphere of the previous evening.

Mom looked beautiful, vibrant in a pale blue silk blouse that matched the sky outside, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike excitement. She was humming a quiet tune as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, darling!” she chirped, her smile wide as I entered, moving towards an empty seat. “You’re going to love your new school. It’s top-tier, one of the best in the state. Just like this house, huh? Everything first-class.”

I managed a small, strained smile, a practiced reflex, and reached for the chilled orange juice pitcher. My hand trembled slightly as I poured, the delicate clinking of glass against glass sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The nervous flutter in my stomach had intensified, a premonition of something inevitable and unpleasant.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. Each tread resonated through the marble floor, a rhythmic, ominous approach.

Dante walked in.

He was wearing the same black shirt as last night. Or, more accurately, a different one, probably – an identical twin plucked from a closet full of dark, severe clothing – but the same unforgiving fit, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean power of his frame. His dark hair, still slightly damp, was tousled, as if he hadn’t even bothered to run a brush through it, lending him a wild, untamed air that was both unsettling and alluring. His eyes, dark and unreadable as ever, swept over the room, acknowledging no one, settling on nothing.

And then I saw it.

My sketchpad.

Tucked casually, almost negligently, under his left arm.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a sudden, violent beat that threatened to choke me. It felt like a physical blow, a sudden, cold dread seizing my chest. He had it. He had it.

He moved towards the table, pulling out a chair at the far end, precisely opposite me. With a soft thump, he dropped the sketchbook on the polished mahogany beside his plate, as if it were nothing but a discarded grocery list, an item of no consequence.

He didn’t look at me. His gaze remained fixed ahead, on his plate, on the coffee pot, on anything but my face.

But something in his jaw was tighter. Controlled. Calculated. A subtle clenching of muscle that spoke volumes. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, hinting at a hidden amusement, a private satisfaction.

So he did see it. All of it.