CHAPTER 10

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

I was sitting in the armchair in my bedroom, a book open on my lap, trying to read—trying to calm my mind.

I hadn’t managed to read a single line when the door opened.

Marco walked in.

He didn’t knock.

“Get ready,” he said. “We’re going out.”

I slowly lifted my gaze to the man standing in front of me.

“Could you knock before coming in?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, flat and dry.

I took a deep breath.

“I could have been naked, you know. That’s incredibly rude. Where’s my privacy?” I stood up, irritation spilling over.

“Understood. My apologies, Miss,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ll knock next time.”

“We’re going out… where?” I asked.

He hesitated before answering.

“Your father’s orders.”

My stomach tightened.

Since the night of the charity event, going out was no longer a simple phrase. Nothing felt simple anymore. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without this brute waiting outside the door. Most of the time, I felt suffocated.

“When?” I asked.

“Now,” he snapped, impatience creeping into his voice.

I closed the book slowly, watching him.

“Is he coming with us?”

Marco didn’t answer.

“Get ready. We’re leaving,” he said firmly, turning and walking out, leaving the door half open.

I went to my closet slowly and searched for something to wear. I didn’t know where we were going, which made choosing harder. I settled on a long white dress with soft floral details. It was beautiful. And I liked it.

I got ready quickly and left the room, finding Marco waiting.

He stepped aside, motioning for me to walk ahead.

I took a deep breath and did as he indicated—not because I agreed, but because I’d already learned that resistance at this stage only changed the form of punishment, never the outcome.

My steps were too steady for someone who didn’t know where she was going. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know whether he watched me like a guard or a jailer. At that moment, the difference was irrelevant.

We went down the stairs in silence. The house felt larger when it was empty. Every sound—my footsteps, restrained breathing, the faint creak of wood—felt amplified—no staff in sight. No voices. No distractions.

I looked around the living room for my father. He wasn’t there.

Marco opened the front door before I even reached it.

The car was already running, waiting for us.

He opened the back door. I got in. He closed it.

The drive began without explanation. I wasn’t told where we were going, and I tried not to spiral. I should’ve been used to silence by now—to the lack of answers.

I watched through the window as the property gates disappeared behind us. Leaving after days of confinement felt strange, but there was no relief in it. Only the uncomfortable sense that this brief freedom carried a higher cost than being locked away.

We drove through streets I recognized… until I didn’t.

The houses grew farther apart. The walls rose higher. The cameras became impossible to miss. The silence thickened.

My body noticed before my mind did.

“Marco,” I said finally. “Where are we going?”

He took his time answering. For a moment, I thought he’d ignore me. It wouldn’t have been the first time—and certainly not the last.

“You ask too many questions,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the road, hands firm on the wheel.

I wanted to curse at him.

“You’re an idiot,” I snapped, crossing my arms. “I hate you.”

That wasn’t entirely true. I hated the situation I was trapped in. But he didn’t need to know that.

Marco irritated me. He always maintained that security posture. Never said much. Followed my father’s rules to the letter. I hated every one of those stupid rules.

The car slowed in front of a massive dark iron gate.

Beyond it stood a mansion—one that took up an entire block, the only house on the street.

The gate opened without the car stopping.

We entered.

The private drive was long. Tall trees lined both sides, trimmed with almost cruel precision. No flowers. Nothing delicate. Everything was symmetrical. Controlled.

I was stunned by the number of guards on the property.

There were so many.

The house revealed itself slowly, as if it had no hurry to be seen.

It wasn’t ostentatious.

It was worse.

Large. Solid. Old. Tall windows. Few of them. A place built to observe without being observed.

The car stopped.

My body froze for a second longer than necessary.

“We’re here,” Marco said.

He got out first and opened my door.

“Out.”

I placed my feet on the ground, the cold stone seeping through the soles of my shoes. The air felt different here. Heavier. Denser.

The front door opened before Marco gave another command.

No servants were rushing around—no warm welcome. Just a man standing at the entrance, hands clasped in front of him, expression too neutral to be casual.

“Helena,” he said with a slight nod. “The Dom is expecting you.”

The title hit me like a physical weight.

Of course, this sudden outing had something to do with the Dom.

I stepped inside, my heart racing.

I studied every inch of the house. The interior was even more oppressive than the outside. The hall was wide but uninviting. Dark marble floors reflected very little light. The walls were decorated with old paintings—scenes that didn’t feel decorative. They felt like records. Conquests. Warnings.

We followed a long corridor. Closed doors.

We entered a large room. Dark leather sofas, an unlit fireplace, and tall windows covered by heavy curtains. The scent of wood, leather, cigar smoke—and something metallic I couldn’t identify.

And then I saw him.

Dom Vittorio stood near the window. He didn’t turn right away. He watched the garden as if he were alone—as if my presence were just another detail of the room.

“You may go,” he said, without looking at Marco.

Marco left. The door closed behind me.

Dom Vittorio turned slowly. His gaze wasn’t quick or invasive. It was calculated. He assessed my face, my posture, and my breathing.

“You came,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I wasn’t given a choice,” I replied.

One corner of his mouth lifted, barely.

“You still believe you have choices?” he asked.

I didn’t have time to answer. He walked to an armchair and sat calmly, then gestured to the one across from him.

“Sit.”

I obeyed. My body was too tense to look relaxed, but I didn’t shrink. I wouldn’t make myself smaller. Not here.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

“At your house,” I answered.

“Wrong.” He leaned forward, closer to me. “This will also be your home in a few days.”

I had to gather every ounce of self-control not to grimace.

“You talk too much for someone who hasn’t yet understood where she’s standing,” he said quietly.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t change his expression.

That was the most frightening part.

“My father imposed rules that aren’t yours,” I said. “So why am I here?”

He studied me as if calculating something I couldn’t see.

“Because your father acts on impulse,” he replied. “And I don’t negotiate with impulses.”

He stood and began walking through the office. Each step seemed to take up more space than the last.

“His mistake,” he continued, stopping by a bookshelf, “was believing submission is natural. It isn’t. Submission is built. Shaped. Maintained.”

His fingers brushed over old objects. Relics. Trophies disguised as décor.

“You are not docile,” he said, still not looking at me. “And that is not a flaw.”

My heart raced.

“But it is not a virtue either,” he added.

He turned back to me.

“It’s a risk.”

Cold swept through my entire body.

“And risks,” he said, offering a humorless half-smile, “must be contained early.”