Chapter 3

Virelli’s assistant led me out of the building without saying much. From the very beginning, the man named Marco had rarely shown any expression. His face was always flat, professional, as if everything happening tonight was nothing more than part of an ordinary work routine.

A luxurious black car was already waiting in front. The door was opened for me, and I stepped inside with mixed feelings—fear, nervousness, and a quiet confusion that refused to settle. The world I had entered today felt impossibly far from the life I used to know.

The drive to the apartment passed in silence. From behind the dark-tinted window, the city looked different. The lights of tall buildings began to glow one by one, vehicles crowded the streets, and nightlife slowly awakened. Meanwhile, my own life felt as though it had stopped at a single irreversible point. There was no turning back from this choice. No undoing the signature I had placed on that contract.

After some time, the car stopped in front of a towering skyscraper, grander than the one I had seen before. The building rose into the night sky with sleek modern architecture and elegant lighting outlining its structure. The Virelli company logo was subtly displayed at the front, not overly flashy, yet powerful enough to command recognition.

I swallowed hard.

This was not merely an apartment.

It was a symbol of power.

Marco stepped out first and opened the door for me. “Follow me,” he said briefly.

The moment I entered the lobby, I fell silent. Polished marble floors reflected the warm glow of enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A soft, expensive fragrance lingered in the air. Several neatly dressed staff members stood along the sides of the room, posture straight, eyes lowered respectfully.

What startled me most was that they all bowed slightly as I walked past them.

“Welcome, Mr. Dante.”

Their voices sounded in unison—polite, controlled, disciplined.

For a second, I nearly turned around to check if they had mistaken me for someone else. But there was no one behind me.

They were greeting me.

As if I were someone important.

An uncomfortable sensation crept into my chest. The respect felt misplaced, almost mocking. I understood very well that they were not honoring me for who I was, but for the name that stood behind me.

Leonard Virelli.

A private elevator carried us to the top floor. When the doors opened, they revealed a vast apartment space that left me standing still for several seconds.

The room was extraordinarily luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows displayed the city from a breathtaking height. Expensive leather sofas were arranged neatly. Modern paintings adorned the walls. Soft, dim lighting created a warm yet exclusive atmosphere.

This was not an ordinary living space.

It was a golden cage.

“Starting tonight, you will live here,” Marco said formally. “All your needs have been prepared.”

Several male and female servants stood at the side of the room, offering polite smiles, awaiting instructions. Their presence emphasized the reality that this place functioned like a private kingdom, and I had just been placed inside it—not as a ruler, but as a possession carefully arranged.

I felt out of place. Completely out of place.

Marco then calmly explained my role here. I was not allowed to interfere in Virelli’s business affairs or personal matters beyond what he permitted. I was not to ask questions about his work. I was not to display excessive curiosity.

I was a controlled part of his life.

However, one point was made unmistakably clear.

“Whenever Mr. Virelli returns to this apartment, you are to welcome him. Ensure the atmosphere suits his preferences. And… ensure he is satisfied.”

The words were delivered without emotion, as though he were discussing a dinner schedule.

My chest tightened.

I had known the consequences of the contract from the start. But hearing it spoken aloud, so plainly and professionally, stripped away any illusion. This was real. There was no romantic misunderstanding. No hidden tenderness promised between the lines.

Marco continued in the same level tone. If I managed to meet Virelli’s expectations, my mother would be transferred to the best hospital in the city. The finest cardiology specialist would handle her treatment. All expenses would be covered.

The promise felt like a double-edged blade.

On one side, it was hope.

On the other, unbearable pressure.

My mother’s health now depended on how well I performed the role assigned to me.

I nodded slowly, even though my throat felt dry.

Marco gestured to one of the servants. “Prepare Mr. Dante.”

I was led to the master bedroom. The space was larger than the entirety of the rented house I used to live in. A massive bed with pristine white sheets stood at the center. The wardrobe was already filled with expensive clothing tailored perfectly to my size.

As if everything had been arranged long before I arrived.

The servant spoke gently, explaining that I was to shower and get ready. “Mr. Virelli will arrive shortly,” they said.

My heart began to pound again.

The bathroom was even more luxurious than my old bedroom. Warm water flowed from the shower, steam filling the room. I stood beneath it, letting the heat sink into my skin, trying to quiet the chaos in my thoughts.

My reflection in the mirror looked unfamiliar.

Still Dante.

But no longer free.

I closed my eyes and allowed the water to run over my face. My mother’s image surfaced in my mind—her pale complexion, her fragile body lying on the hospital bed, the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside her.

I strengthened my resolve.

Everything was for her.

After finishing, I put on the clothes prepared for me—a thin dark shirt and tailored trousers that felt foreign against my skin. One of the servants neatly styled my hair. Every detail was adjusted, refined, perfected.

When I returned to the main living area, the lights had been dimmed slightly. The atmosphere had shifted—quieter, more intimate, heavy with anticipation.

I stood near the large window, gazing down at the city below. From this height, the lights resembled scattered stars. The world looked vast and alive, yet I felt confined within a single invisible boundary.

Not long after, the main door opened.

The sound of firm, steady footsteps entered the room.

I knew without turning.

Virelli had arrived.

The air itself seemed to change—tense, charged with invisible authority.

He walked in unhurriedly, his suit still perfectly tailored, his presence commanding without effort. His gaze was sharp, assessing. There was something in his eyes—a silent evaluation, as though he were observing the results of careful preparation.

His eyes traveled over my appearance from head to toe.

I held my breath.

He approached until only a few steps separated us. There were no sweet words. No unnecessary pleasantries.

His hand lifted, fingers touching my chin, tilting my face upward so I would meet his eyes.

He seemed satisfied.

Not because of affection.

But because of control.

Fear and obligation blended inside me. This was part of the agreement. I had to learn his rhythm, understand his expectations without excessive questions. I had to adapt quickly, flawlessly.

He pulled me closer, enough for me to feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of my shirt. My heartbeat became uneven, loud in my ears.

Yet this time, I did not completely freeze.

I remembered Marco’s words.

If I fulfilled this role properly, my mother would receive the best treatment possible.

Slowly, I adjusted myself to the closeness—not out of desire, but out of necessity. I allowed the moment to unfold with controlled composure, suppressing the turmoil inside me. I understood that in this world, emotions held little value compared to usefulness.

That night, I learned something essential about Virelli’s world.

Everything was a transaction.

Attention was exchanged for obedience.

Warmth was exchanged for compliance.

Touch was exchanged for security.

And I had just agreed to pay the price.