She dried herself and reached for fresh underwear from the cabinet Magnus had indicated earlier. Simple. Pale silk. Clean.The small act of putting them on steadied her more than she expected.
Her hair, however, was still damp, dark strands clinging to her shoulders.Elia hesitated a moment, then reached for the hair dryer mounted beside the mirror. Warm air rushed through the thick strands as she worked quickly, lifting sections and guiding the brush through until the dampness vanished and her hair settled smoothlydown herback.
She studied herself in the mirror one last time. Cleaner. Calmer. More composed.By the time she returned to the bedroom, Magnus had already chosen clothing.A dress lay across the bed.Red.Rich and striking. The color of power, not obedience.A coat rested beside it.Shoes waited on the floor.
Magnus stood near the wardrobe watching her approach. His gaze moved over her, taking in the now-dry fall of her hair and the bare skin still faintly flushed from the heat of the shower.Something dark flickered in his eyes before he maskedit.
“Better,” he said.
Elia lifted her chin slightly. “I’m human again.”
Magnus picked up the dress and stepped closer. “Here.” He held it open forher.
Elia slipped her arms through the sleeves.The fabric slid over her skin as he guided the dress down with care, his knuckles brushing her sides. The touch sparked awareness that had nothing to do withfear.
He paused, his eyes lifting to hers for a brief moment before he reached behind her to finish the zipper.His fingertips grazed the back of her neck.A shiver ran down her spine before she could stop it. The contact was light, almost accidental, yet it sent a sharp awareness through her body that had nothing to do withfear.
His hand stilled for the briefest second.He turned her gently toward the mirror.
She stared.She looked nothing like a servant.She looked like a woman meant to sit at the table, not serve those seated there.He lifted the coatand settled it over her shoulders.Then he stepped in close, adjusting the lapels with close attention that made her skin prickle.
“This is how you walk in,” he said. “Head up. Eyes forward. You don’t ask permission to exist.” He stepped back and studied her for a moment, as if confirming something to himself.“Ready?” he asked.
She drew air into her lungs, slow and deep.“Yes,” she finallysaid.
He nodded once.“Then let’s go.”
The drive to The Alabaster Club was silent.Not empty.Charged.Elia sat beside Magnus in the back seat, hands folded in her lap, posture straight. The city slid past the tinted windows in clean lines of glass and steel.Magnus didn’t touch her.But his presence pressed against her like awall.
When the car turned onto the private drive, her stomach tightened.The Alabaster Club rose ahead.White stone.Tall windows.A place built for power.Elia had been here only yesterday, sitting across from Magnus at lunch, trying to pretend she belonged in a place like this. The familiarity steadied her more than she expected. At least the walls, the scent of polished wood and citrus, the golden light spilling across marble floors weren’t new enemies.
They were guided down the same corridor toward a private room.Elia’s pulse tightened.As they approached the door, her steps slowed almost imperceptibly. Yesterday she had walked this same corridor beside Magnus while waiters carried wine and subdued conversation driftedthrough the club. Lunch. Calm voices. Atable by the window where she had tried not to stare at the men who ruled thecity.
Today the corridor felt different. The same marble. The same muted lighting. But the air carried a tension that hadn’t existed before, as if the building itself understood that something sharper waited behind the closeddoor.
Magnus paused and looked down at her.“You’re not alone,” hesaid.
Elia nodded once.
They entered. Vittorio Donati sat by himself at the far end of a long table.
Several empty chairs lined the polished wood between them. Vittorio didn’t invite them to sit, and Magnus had no intention of asking. They remained standing where they were, two people refusing the structure of a meeting Vittorio believed he presided over.He didn’t rise.He didn’t greet Magnus first.His eyes fixed on Elia for too long. Her spine went rigid.
Magnus’s hand settled at the small of her back, brief pressure grounding.
Vittorio’s voice came smooth.“You’ve forgotten how to lower your eyes,” hesaid.
The words struck somewhere deep in Elia’s memory. For years that had been the rule inside the Donati house. Eyes down. Voice restrained. Invisible unless summoned. Her body almost reacted automatically, the old training tightening through her, urging her gaze toward the floor.
Sherefused it.
Magnus spoke, calm and cold. “We were told this meeting concerned business.”
Vittorio didn’t look away from Elia.Then he spoke, his voice cutting through the silence.“My daughter.”
The words landed like a hand closing around her throat.Elia forgot how to breathe for a second.Not servant. Not liability. Not the unobtrusive shadow moving through the Donati halls.
Daughter.
