Ep~2: The First Meeting

The Moretti estate was nothing like Anaya had ever seen.

Her parents’ car rolled past towering wrought-iron gates guarded by men in black suits, their expressions cold, their eyes sharp as blades. Beyond stretched a driveway lined with cypress trees, leading to a villa that looked more like a fortress carved from stone. Its tall arches and shadowed balconies loomed under the twilight sky, as if daring anyone to step inside and leave unchanged.

Anaya’s hands trembled against her silk clutch. She had dressed carefully, an elegant pastel sari, understated jewelry, hair pinned neatly, but no amount of preparation could quiet the storm inside her.

Her father’s voice, low but commanding, broke the silence in the car.

“Remember, Anaya. You are to be respectful. Say little. Observe much.”

Her mother added softly, “Do not let fear show on your face. The Morettis value strength.”

Anaya bit back a sharp retort. Strength. Respect. Duty. They spoke as if she were being sent into battle, not to meet the man who was to become her husband.

The car halted at the grand steps. A servant opened the door, bowing slightly. As Anaya stepped out, the air felt heavier, thick with the weight of unseen eyes.

They were led into a vast hall, marble floors glistening beneath a chandelier that dripped crystal light. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint tick of a clock somewhere deep inside.

And then he appeared.

Adrian Moretti descended the staircase with the quiet authority of a king. He was taller than she expected, his broad shoulders filling the dark suit he wore with effortless elegance. His face was striking, sharp jawline, straight nose, lips pressed in a line that hinted at both control and cruelty. But it was his eyes that unsettled her most: deep, unreadable, a storm contained within obsidian.

For a moment, time seemed to falter.

Anaya’s heart thudded. This is him. The man whispered about at parties, feared in boardrooms. The man whose name alone sent shivers through society.

And yet… as his gaze locked on hers, she felt something else. Familiarity. The strange pull she had felt last night returned, stronger, as if his eyes carried a memory she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Mr. and Mrs. Patel,” Adrian said, his voice smooth, low, and deliberate. He greeted her parents first, his handshake firm, his words precise. Then his gaze shifted back to her, lingering, assessing. “And this must be Anaya.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she said softly, bowing her head in a gesture of respect.

“Welcome to my home,” he said, and though his tone was polite, his eyes betrayed something else, something sharper, more possessive.

They were seated in the grand salon. Her father spoke of business, alliances, opportunities. Adrian listened with the patience of a man used to power being offered to him rather than taken. He nodded occasionally, but his attention, Anaya realized with growing unease, kept flickering back to her.

Finally, he addressed her directly.

“Do you always let others speak for you, Anaya?”

The question caught her off guard. Her parents stiffened, clearly uncomfortable. But Adrian’s gaze remained steady, challenging.

“I speak when there is something worth saying,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady.

His lips curved faintly, something between amusement and approval. “Good.”

After dinner, as their parents finalized the engagement details in hushed tones, Adrian offered to walk Anaya through the gardens. She hesitated, but propriety demanded she accept.

The night air was cool, scented with roses and earth. Lanterns lit the stone path, casting pools of golden light. For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.

“You’re afraid of me,” Adrian said suddenly, his tone matter-of-fact.

Her head snapped toward him. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” His eyes bore into hers. “And you should be.”

Her breath hitched. The audacity of his words should have angered her, but instead it left her strangely breathless. He spoke not as a man courting a bride, but as someone warning her of the storm he carried inside.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered, defensive.

A shadow of something unreadable flickered across his face. “No,” he said softly, almost too softly. “But I know you, Anaya. More than you think.”

Her pulse quickened, confusion tightening her chest. Know me? How?

But before she could question him, they reached the end of the garden path where a single olive tree stood tall, its leaves rustling in the breeze. Adrian’s hand brushed against the trunk with reverence, as if it held a secret.

“Some bonds,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something intimate, “are written long before we understand them.”

The words lingered in the night air, unsettling and intoxicating all at once.

Anaya looked at him, her heart racing with a mix of fear and inexplicable pull. Who exactly was Adrian Moretti?

And why did her soul whisper that she had known him long before this night?

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