Chapter 7 —Cold walls
Aria's POV
The Moretti estate was colder than she'd imagined.
Not in temperature, but in feeling.
The walls were tall and dark, covered in oil paintings of dead men and silent women. Guards patrolled the halls like shadows. The maids never spoke unless spoken to. And no one looked her in the eye.
No one except the man who had married her — and only once.
Lucien hadn't spoken to her in four days.
Not since he'd drawn the line in the sand and vanished behind closed doors, sealed away in his office, his gym, his empire of silence.
Aria didn't try to chase him.
She watched instead.
Quietly.
She moved through the mansion like a ghost. Floating, observing, remembering.
She memorized the guards' shift patterns. Which security doors clicked at midnight. Which rooms she wasn't allowed to enter — and how often they were left unlocked.
She made friends with the head maid, Clara, by learning her tea preference and complimenting her embroidery. She slipped into kitchens, libraries, greenhouses — never stopped, never lingered too long.
Always watching.
Always listening.
She didn't need to ask Lucien for information.
She would take it piece by piece.
---
Lucien's POV
He told himself he didn't care.
He had more important things to deal with — cartel tensions in Mexico, arms shipments delayed in Serbia, two men missing in Albania.
He didn't have time to think about her.
But still.
He noticed the silence in the halls where she walked. The soft scent that lingered when she passed — vanilla and something warmer. Something… distracting.
He noticed the way the staff spoke differently when she was near. A little gentler. A little more alert.
He noticed the new book on his desk — an out-of-print journal on ancient Roman family codes. She'd left it there. He didn't know how she knew he'd been researching that.
He didn't ask.
But he didn't return it, either.
That night, when he caught a glimpse of her in the library — barefoot, curled on the velvet couch, reading by firelight — he turned away before she saw him.
But he stood there longer than he meant to.
Watching her.
Wondering how she'd gotten so deep inside his home without making a sound.
---
Aria's POV
She heard him at night.
Not close — but present.
Boots on marble. The creak of doors. Voices outside her door.
He never came in.
But sometimes she wondered if he stood there, just for a second, deciding.
She wasn't afraid of him anymore.
She respected him — the way you respect a loaded gun on a table.
But she didn't flinch.
Not when she caught glimpses of him training with knives in the courtyard, shirtless and slick with sweat.
Not when she overheard him ordering executions on the phone in Italian, voice low and calm.
And not when he brushed past her in the hall one afternoon, his sleeve grazing hers, and their eyes locked for one heartbeat too long.
She only nodded.
"Lucien."
He didn't respond.
But his eyes lingered.
---
Lucien's POV
She was unsettling.
He had tried to box her in, to file her under "quiet, obedient, harmless."
But every day that passed, she unraveled that definition thread by thread.
She had presence.
Still. Watchful. Sharp beneath the softness.
He couldn't decide if she was a threat…
Or a challenge.
He caught himself watching her from his office window as she walked the back gardens in the late afternoon light, sunlight pouring through her hair like fire.
She wasn't Isla. She never had been.
But maybe that was the problem.
She was Aria.
And she wasn't going anywhere.
---
Late Evening — Aria's Room
She stared out at the garden as night crept in. The Moretti estate lit up like a kingdom of secrets.
She wondered if Lucien would ever speak to her again.
If he would ever let her close enough to find what she came here for.
Or if the fire building in her chest had nothing to do with revenge anymore.
But she couldn't afford to feel.
Not yet.
She would keep moving.
Keep watching.
Because somewhere in this house of shadows… Lucien Moretti had a weakness.
And she was going to find it.
Even if it turned out to be her.