My eyes start darting around on their own. My body has already decided I’m in danger before my mind can catch up. Panic surges up my throat, making it hard to breathe.
It feels exactly like that moment in a slasher movie, right when the girl realizes the killer isn’t on the screen anymore. My mind is clouded, and I can’t think rationally.
“What do you want?” I ask fiercely.
“Did you lock your door like you were advised to?”
My gaze snaps to the door, and before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and pull it open.
And there he is, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting for me for hours. He slides his phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact. His stare is steady and unblinking, hooking into me.
Heat rushes up my spine so fast it steals my breath. I can’t move. His presence pins me in place far better than fear ever could.
“You don’t listen, little orchid.” He smirks. “Next time, lock your door properly.”
One day later
After he left my room, I still couldn’t sleep. I’m used to be followed—stalked even—but what he did last night was unsettling. After much thinking, overthinking, analyzing and guessing eventually, around 7 a.m. I fell asleep until noon.
I didn’t leave my room for the rest of the day. I shut the door, like that could somehow shut everything else out. Time dragged by while I laid there, but I didn’t mind. I was staring at the ceiling and scrolled through my phone for endless hours. I didn’t go out because I didn’t want to see him.
Not because I was scared of what he’d say, but because I didn’t trust what I’d do.
He’s such a strange, twisted man. Always wearing that smug little smirk like he knows something I don’t, like he’s already won a game I didn’t even know I was playing. And just when I think I’ve figured him out, that smirk shifts. It turns dark, like a mask slipping. There’s something off about him, something that makes my skin crawl in the quiet moments. I can’t read him, and I hate that. I hate that I don’t know how to act around him, whether to brace for impact or just smile back and pretend I’m not suffocating.
Yeah, I dragged him into this mess. I thought he’d squirm or snap. But instead, he leaned into it, like he likes the tension. Like he’s been waiting for me to lose control.
And maybe I already did.
Because I sure as hell feel the tension around him. I feel it crawl up my spine when he touches me like I belong to him. And somehow, it’s worse when he’s not touching me. The silence he leaves behind buzzes louder than his presence ever could. I’ve known him for a single day, and already everything feels off kilter.
Today is a new day, and I have to go out, pretend I’m the good girl and eat breakfast with my parents as always. I can’t avoid it, as they always want me to pretend I’m the princess. The golden heir of this shitty world they raised me in.
I check myself in the mirror and put on my lip gloss to finalize my natural makeup. Today I dressed simple—a simple pair of jeans and a frilly pink top.
Something casual, so I won’t scream, “Hey, I’m the mafia don’s daughter,” to the whole university.
I walk outside my room and—what a surprise—no one talks to me; no one even looks at me.
I grew up my whole life without having anyone by my side. I didn’t have my mother, because she’s a crazy bitch who doesn’t love anyone but herself. I didn’t have my father, because he was so focused on his domestic game and how he would acquire more money and new pawns to manipulate. I didn’t have any friends—because who would want to be friends with a girl who drags three giant bodyguards behind her? Which boy would want to date a girl who doesn’t have a moment alone? Besides, if anyone dared to even look at me, my bodyguards—Wes—made sure to make their presence known.
It’s not because they cared for me, but because they were afraid of my father. Of course they were. Everyone is.
Upon entering the kitchen, I see Maria preparing breakfast.
Everything is already settled on the gleaming white marble island in the middle of the room—because, obviously, the king and queen can’t descend from their chambers until the peasants have laid out their morning feast just right. God forbid someone see them eat a slightly wrinkled croissant. The breakfast is full and rich, as always.
There’s an entire platter of perfectly sliced avocado and poached eggs. Salmon, because bacon is too pedestrian.
“Good morning, Maria,” I say, taking a seat.
“Good morning, Miss Calvano,” she answers without even looking at me.
Maria has been with us since forever—since I can remember, anyway. Father dragged her from Italy without caring that she left her family behind. I guess she thinks she protects them by sticking with my father.
“Morning,” Mother says, barely glancing our way as her heels scrape across the white marble. No warmth, no smile. Just enough effort to acknowledge us, but not enough for a full “good morning” as if we don’t even deserve it. She looks weird, like she’s sobering up from a hangover. That wouldn’t surprise me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Calvano,” Maria chirps with a fake, bright smile.
