The contracted bed warmer

The silk sheets were colder than Lydia expected — ironic, considering the heat of Eric’s touch still lingered on her skin. She lay still in the massive bed, the scent of his cologne soaking into the pillow beside her. Around her, the penthouse was quiet, too quiet. Like a predator watching from the shadows.

She wasn’t his lover. Not in the way a woman dreams of being loved.

She was his possession.

His exclusive bed warmer.

A year ago, she had stumbled into this world of marble floors, armed guards, and icy glares. A world ruled by Eric Moretti — the most feared mafia boss in the country. Ruthless, powerful, and undeniably handsome. But more than anything, he was paranoid. And dangerously possessive.

He didn’t believe in love. He didn’t allow it.

But he kept Lydia in a golden cage, just close enough to touch but never to own his heart.

The door creaked open.

Her body stiffened instinctively before she saw the tall silhouette enter. Black suit. Sharp jaw. Cold grey eyes.

“Still awake?” Eric’s voice was low, a mix of irritation and… something else.

Lydia sat up, pulling the sheets over herself. “You said you’d be back hours ago.”

Eric strode in, undoing the buttons on his shirt. “You don’t question me.”

“I wasn’t questioning,” she said carefully. “Just… asking.”

He reached her in two strides, cupping her chin with a grip just tight enough to remind her who was in control. “You exist in this house because I allow it. Don’t forget your place, Lydia.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. It always did when he touched her like that. Not because of fear — but because of the sickening mixture of emotions he stirred in her. Hatred. Desire. Confusion.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, eyes locked on his.

His gaze flickered to her lips. “Good.” Then, after a pause, he added in a quieter voice, “I don’t like you waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t waiting. I just couldn’t sleep.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Liar.”

Eric climbed into bed beside her and pulled her into his chest. The smell of alcohol and blood clung to him. She knew better than to ask questions. He didn’t talk about work. And if he did… it meant something bad had happened.

“Don’t talk to the guards anymore,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist possessively.

She blinked. “I didn’t—”

“I saw you talking to Ivan this morning. Smile like that again at anyone else, and I’ll carve it off your face.”

She froze. “He was just asking if I wanted tea—”

“I don’t care.”

She shut her mouth. She’d forgotten how paranoid he could get. How his jealousy bled into madness.

After a long silence, his hand gently stroked her hair. “I hate the idea of someone else touching what’s mine.”

Mine.

That word again. It wasn’t love. It was obsession.

Lydia closed her eyes. She had once thought she could endure this life. That being desired by someone as powerful as Eric meant something.

But lately, a voice inside her was growing louder. Whispering that this wasn’t love. It was a cage. And sooner or later, she would suffocate in it.

Her fingers clutched the sheets tighter.

She had no idea that the crack in her resolve would widen completely — the moment she discovered the woman Eric was marrying.

His fiancée.

And that she was nothing but his secret.

His beautiful, disposable secret.

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