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ELLA
Iexpect him to curse, be mad, and show me what a megalomaniac he really is.
As for me, I am still figuring out a way to escape this. I ponder as I look at the black, sleeveless dress, given to me courtesy of the housekeeper. I stand before the mirror in the dimly lit room, the sleek dress hanging delicately from the closet door. As I reach for it, my fingers brush against the soft fabric. It feels foreign.
With a hint of apprehension, I slip into the dress and zip it up. The organza material glides over my body. It's smooth against my skin, feeling cool and upmarket. The fabric seems to wrap around me just right, making it snug and comfortable. It is brand new, I can tell by the crisp smell – that familiar whiff of expensive clothing when you enter a Buck Mason store.
It fits like a glove, accentuating curves I'd almost forgotten existed. I stand there, a stranger to the reflection staring back at me. It looks beautiful. I… look beautiful.
The woman in the mirror is a departure from the captive version of me – she's confident, alluring, and defiant. Turning from side to side, I observe the way it drapes elegantly, its hemline stopping just above the knees. As I take in my reflection, a mixture of emotions swirl within. I notice the tag hanging from the waistline.
$10,299. Holy cow. I've never worn anything like this before. Not this expensive. I try on the Low black Dior heels given with the dress, which, surprisingly, are my exact size. I catch a last hint of myself in the mirror and go out of the room, towards the kitchen.
One of the brooding men at the kitchen door, dressed in a black tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire year’s rent, eyes me and I realize I have been staring at him for too long. I look away.
“Can I get you anything?” the housekeeper asks for the third time now. Tommaso. Ugh. Not that I need him.
“No, thank you. Will your employer be seeing me this morning?” I ask.
“Shortly, Miss Hart.” I sit at the ornate table, my eyes fixed on the golden clock that ticks away the minutes. I stare at the spread fit for a king that lies before me. Does he really eat this much? I have been functioning on caffeine and pretzels since high school. Breakfast is not my favorite meal.
Everything around me is picture-perfect and pristine, as if untouched by human hands. The glass plates, the fruit basket, the pastries, the assortment of perfectly poached eggs.
I look at my face in the spotless plate lying before me. I take a long, hard look. I’m my usual pale self, dark-circles around my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted. I comb my hair with my fingers, so that it hangs artfully down my back. I look at the housekeeper and think of asking her why I’m supposed to wait for her boss to start eating.
“I –” I stop midway as Tommaso walks in the room.
He walks toward the table, not noticing me any more than he seems to notice the air around him. He brushes his arm as he moves past me and I jump backwards. It isn’t that he collides with me, it’s the heat of his skin.
I shudder. My body involuntarily jerks backward. I try to maintain my composure, to hide the desire that consumes me whenever he's near. It's impossible to deny the intoxicating effect he has on me. His aura is magnetic, drawing me in like a moth to flame.
The muscular men at the door step backwards and the housekeeper leaves. I stare at his profile, the muscles at the base of his jaw, his curls. What a smug bloke.
Well, if I’ve learned something in my field, it’s that you can’t let people walk all over you. Certainly not egotistic freaks.
“Morning. You look radiant, Ella. Slept well, I assume.” I swallow at his voice. I glance up from the plate, my eyes meeting Tommaso's as he starts to sip his coffee. His question hangs in the air, innocent enough, but nothing in my situation is as it seems. Slept well?
He smirks, as if he expects a pleasant response.
"Did you have sweet dreams?" His tone is light, almost teasing, but his eyes betray an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.
I pick at my breakfast, contemplating how much of my hate I should reveal. "Considering the circumstances, it was a toss-up between nightmares and the unsettling quiet of this gilded cage."
Tommaso chuckles, the sound low and rich. "Gilded cage? That's a rather poetic way to describe my house."
"A house with locked doors and guarded windows," I retort, my skepticism dripping from every word. I'm not about to play along with his twisted version of reality.
He leans back in his chair, regarding me with an appraising look. "True, security is a necessity. A precaution for both of us, wouldn't you agree?"
I narrow my eyes, taking a deliberate sip of the coffee in front of me. "Security for you, maybe. In case you didn’t notice, I'm being held against my will here."
His gaze doesn't waver, and he sets down his coffee cup with deliberate slowness. "Semantics. I'm genuinely concerned about your well-being. You're my guest here." I dare to scoff.
A guest. The absurdity of the term is not lost on me. "Guests usually have a choice in the matter."
He smirks, unfazed by my defiance. "One day you're minding your own business, the next you're sharing breakfast with a Mafioso."
I scoff again, unable to suppress a sarcastic smile. "Lucky me." His gaze intensifies, and for a moment, I'm caught in the depth of those dark eyes.
