Ep~4: The Mansion

The heavy oak doors of the Moretti villa shut with a resonant thud, echoing down marble corridors that stretched into shadows. For Anaya, it felt less like entering a home and more like crossing a threshold into a labyrinth, one she might never escape.

Her bridal sari weighed on her shoulders like chains as she stepped into the grand hall. The chandeliers glowed faintly above her, their golden light failing to soften the severity of the space. Oil paintings of stern ancestors lined the walls, each one staring down with eyes sharp enough to pierce bone.

This was no house of joy. It was a fortress.

Adrian walked ahead of her, his stride steady, his posture regal. He didn’t look back to see if she followed; he simply expected she would. And somehow, she did.

At the base of the staircase, he stopped and turned to her. His dark eyes swept over her once, lingering just a fraction too long.

“From tonight, this is your home,” he said, voice even, low. “You’ll be safe here.”

Safe. The word struck her as ironic. Could anyone truly be safe in a place guarded by men with guns, led by a man whose very name evoked fear?

Anaya lifted her chin, forcing her voice to stay firm. “Safe,” she repeated, her tone laced with quiet defiance. “Or trapped?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, to her surprise, his lips curved faintly—not into a smile, but something that resembled amusement. “That depends entirely on you.”

He led her through the hallways, pointing out rooms with a formality that bordered on coldness.

“The east wing is private. My office is there. You will not enter without my permission.”

“The guards are here for protection. If anyone approaches you, you do not refuse them. They answer only to me.”

“The staff will cater to your needs. But do not mistake kindness for friendship, they work for me, not you.”

Each statement was less an explanation and more a rule. His world was not one of compromise; it was structure, order, control.

By the time they reached her chamber, her head spun with unspoken questions. Was this what marriage meant with Adrian Moretti? A life of restrictions, silence, and shadows?

He pushed the door open, revealing a room far larger than her own back home. The bed was massive, draped in crimson silk. A balcony overlooked the gardens, the night air seeping through the curtains. On the desk rested a single vase, holding a fresh olive branch.

Her heart gave a strange lurch. Why an olive branch? It was an odd decoration in a room otherwise designed for power and wealth.

She turned to ask him, but Adrian was already watching her. His gaze wasn’t just on her, it was in her, stripping away the layers she tried so desperately to hold together.

“This room is yours,” he said finally. “No one will disturb you here.”

“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Something unreadable flickered across his expression. “Not tonight.”

As he turned to leave, her frustration boiled over.

“Why me, Adrian?” she demanded, her voice breaking the stillness. “Why this marriage? You could have chosen any woman, but you chose me. Why?”

He paused at the doorway, his back still to her. For a moment, she thought he might not answer at all.

Then, slowly, he looked over his shoulder. His eyes glinted with something she couldn’t place danger, possession, something dangerously close to tenderness.

“Because,” he said softly, “some things are not chosen. Some things are inevitable.”

And with that, he stepped into the shadows, leaving her standing in the vast room with her pulse racing and her heart tangled in confusion.

The night stretched long and restless. Anaya lay awake in the grand bed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of the mangalsutra around her neck was both comfort and chain. Every word he had spoken replayed in her mind, but none haunted her more than the last: inevitable.

She pressed a hand over her racing heart.

Who exactly was Adrian Moretti to her?

And why did his presence feel less like a stranger’s… and more like a memory she had lost?

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