THE EXTENSION CLAUSE

The sunlight crept through the curtain like a thief, soft and slow. Riva blinked against it, muscles aching, skin bare beneath unfamiliar sheets. The bed beside her was empty. No trace of him. No words. No explanation. Just the echo of what he did to her. What she let him do.

Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her thighs felt tender, her lips bruised. A scent lingered on her skin—his. Expensive. Sharp. Dangerous.

She sat up slowly, the sheet dragging across her skin. And then she saw it—on the nightstand.

A blank cheque. Signed. No amount.

Just a signature in sharp, expensive ink.

Ares Moretti.

She stared at the name for a long second, her mouth dry. He hadn't said it. Not once. But he knew hers. Knew everything. And now he’d left her with a signature and silence.

She stuffed the cheque into her bag, dressed wordlessly, and walked out like she hadn’t just been wrecked by a man whose last name alone could trigger headlines.

At the hospital, the nurse at the front desk blinked when Riva approached.

“Sen?” she asked. “Riva Sen?” Riva nodded.

“You—uh—you already cleared the dues.” Her brows furrowed.

“What?”

“Full payment. Private room extended. Specialist brought in from New York. All settled.” Riva’s mouth opened. Closed.

He paid. Not just for her night—but for her brother’s life. A bitter twist coiled in her stomach. Gratitude wasn’t supposed to feel this filthy.

She signed the final documents, kissed her unconscious brother’s forehead, and walked out.

By noon, she was sitting in the last row of her lecture hall, barely hearing a word the professor said. Her friends waved, whispered, exchanged looks—but didn’t press.

Not yet. At 5:10, as she walked toward the front gate, her friend Nia grabbed her arm.

“You’ve been weird all day. Is your brother okay? Where were you yesterday?”

“I’m fine,” Riva muttered. “He’s better. I just… had something urgent.”

Before Nia could respond, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. A man in a black suit stepped out, expression blank. Another waited at the rear door.

“Miss Sen?” Riva stopped cold.

“Yes?”

“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Moretti. He sent us to pick you up.”

She blinked. “Who?”

The friend group had gone silent. Everyone stared. Everything froze.

Nia stepped in. “Wait. Moretti Moretti?”

Riva frowned. “You know him?”

“Are you—are you serious right now?” another friend asked, wide-eyed. “He’s Ares Moretti. That family runs half the illegal shit across borders. Mafia. Guns. Casinos. Black money. People disappear when they breathe wrong around them.”

Riva’s stomach dropped. “You mean he’s like… actual mafia?”

“Actual. Untouchable. Lethal. And you—” Nia looked her up and down. “What the hell did you do to end up in his car?”

Riva didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Then one of the men handed her a phone. “There’s a call for you.”

She pressed it to her ear.

“You took the cheque,” Ares said, his voice silk and threat.

Her knees went weak.

“I—yes.”

“Get in the car.”

“I don’t even—”

“Now.”

The line went dead.

She stared at her friends—questions in their eyes, disbelief on their faces. Without a word, she climbed in because she thought it's better option than having to answer the question her friends were dying to bomb her with.

**

The mansion was… unreal. Stone columns. Black glass windows. High walls and gates so tall they looked like they were built to keep armies out.

And inside—silence. Luxury. Space. So much space. Marble floors. Tall ceilings. Chandeliers so delicate they looked like starlight frozen in time. Her eyes widened as she stepped in, led by the same bodyguard who hadn’t said a word since picking her up. She swallowed hard.

What even is this?

“You’re overwhelmed,” a voice said behind her. She turned sharply.

There he was.

Ares Moretti.

Dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins visible down his forearms. Hair still messy. Jaw shadowed. And eyes—those same eyes that watched her like a storm waiting to happen.

“You—this place—” she stammered.

He tilted his head.

“You’re allowed to speak, Riva.”

“You didn’t mention you were a f—” she caught herself. “A Moretti.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t think I was selling myself to the mafia.”

He stepped closer. “You weren’t. You were selling yourself to me.”

“And what’s the difference?”

“Simple.” He leaned in, voice brushing her ear. “The mafia takes what it wants. I paid.”

She flinched slightly, but didn’t move away.

His hand reached into his coat and pulled out a leather folder.

“Your contract,” he said. “I added an addendum.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You said one night. I decided I want more. This extends your services.”

“For what?”

“For me. Whenever I want. However I want.”

She laughed—short and bitter. “You think I’d sign that?”

“You already signed once.”

“That was different.” He opened the folder, showed her the page. Her name. Her signature. The extension clause—already checked, already highlighted.

She froze. “You forged—”

“I don’t forge. I just plan ahead.” He stepped closer again. No pretense. No performance. “I’m not forcing you, Riva. You can walk out. But you should know… the moment you do, I’ll cut ties. Your brother’s treatment. Your protection. Gone.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Rage. Shame. Heat. Fear. They all collided in her lungs.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.

He smirked. “Yet you still haven’t run.”

She tried to move back, but her spine hit the wall. Ares’s hand landed beside her head, his body pressing forward—but not touching.

“You wanted to survive,” he said. “I’m offering you more than survival. Power. Security. Me.”

She turned her face away, trembling. Not from fear. From the war inside her.

“You’re crazy.”

“Only about you.” His hand lifted her chin, forcing her to look into those eyes again.

“You hate that it felt good.”

“I hate you.”

He smiled, slow and wicked. “You’ll scream again tonight, Riva. But this time— You’ll beg for more.”