Chapter 3: Don’t Cover Up

~AURORA~

I woke up to softness.

That was the first thing my brain registered—something soft beneath me. Not the cold, hard floor of our apartment. Not Kevin’s punches or kicks.

Just… softness.

My eyes opened slowly, and I immediately winced. Everything hurt. My face throbbed, my ribs ached with each breath, and my head felt like it had been split open.

Where was I?

Carefully, I turned my head. The room around me was nothing like I had ever seen. High ceilings with intricate molding, cream-colored walls adorned with expensive-looking art, a massive window with heavy velvet curtains partially drawn. The bed I lay in was enormous, covered in silk sheets that probably cost more than a month’s rent.

This couldn’t be real.

Was I dreaming? Had I died and somehow ended up in heaven? Though after the life I had lived, heaven seemed unlikely.

A movement in the corner caught my attention. A woman stood there, dressed in a crisp black and white uniform—a maid’s outfit. She was arranging something on a side table, her movements precise and practiced.

“Who… who are you?” My voice came out raspy, barely above a whisper.

The woman turned, her expression neutral but not unkind. She was perhaps in her fifties, with graying hair pulled back into a neat bun.

“You’re awake,” she said simply, walking toward the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?” I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my ribs, forcing me back down with a gasp.

“Easy,” the woman said, though she made no move to help me. “You’re in the Dante estate.”

The Dante estate.

Marcel Dante.

It all came rushing back—Kevin’s beating, the door bursting open, the man with the gun, being carried away…

This wasn’t a dream. This was a nightmare.

“No,” I whispered, my heart beginning to race. “No, please. Please let me go. I didn’t do anything wrong. My brother—he’s the one who owes the debt, not me. Please, I’ll find a way to pay it back, I’ll—”

“I can’t help you with that,” the maid interrupted calmly. “Boss Marcel will see you shortly.”

“No, please, you don’t understand—”

“What I understand is that you need to eat and regain your strength,” she continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. She gestured to the side table where she’d been working. “There’s hot tea and bread. You should eat something.”

She walked back to the table and picked up a tray, bringing it to the bed. The smell of fresh bread and chamomile tea filled my nostrils, and despite my terror, my stomach growled loudly.

“You’re also free to use the shower,” the maid added, setting the tray on the nightstand beside me. “There are warm towels in the bathroom, and fresh clothes in the closet. Boss Marcel will expect you to be presentable.”

“Wait, please—” I reached out, trying to grab her arm, but she stepped back smoothly.

“Eat. Shower. He’ll be here soon.”

And with that, she turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made my chest tighten.

I stared at the tray beside me. The bread looked fresh, still warm. The tea steamed in the cup. My stomach growled again, more insistent this time.

I hadn’t eaten since that morning at the cafe—just a cup of coffee before my shift started. Before everything fell apart.

But what if it was poisoned? What if this was all some elaborate setup?

My stomach cramped painfully, answering that question for me. Poisoned or not, I needed to eat something or I would collapse again.

With trembling hands, I reached for the bread. It was soft, probably expensive. I took a small bite, then another. Before I knew it, I had devoured half the loaf and drained the entire cup of tea.

The warmth spread through my body, easing some of the pain, giving me just enough strength to think more clearly.

I needed to escape. There had to be a way out of here.

But first, I needed to clean up. I needed to think.

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself out of the bed. My legs shook as they touched the plush carpet, but they held. I shuffled toward what I assumed was the bathroom door and pushed it open.

If the bedroom was impressive, the bathroom was obscene. Marble everywhere—floors, walls, countertops. A bathtub that could fit three people, a shower with multiple heads, gold fixtures that gleamed under the soft lighting.

I caught sight of myself in the massive mirror and gasped.

My face was a mess of bruises—purple and yellow marks covering my cheek, my jaw, around my eye. My lip was split and swollen. Dark bruises circled my throat where Kevin had grabbed me.

I looked like a victim. I looked broken.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back. No. I wouldn’t cry. Not now.

I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm. Steam began to fill the room as I slowly, carefully, began to pull off my clothes. Each movement hurt, but I pushed through.

My shirt came off first, then my bra. I was just reaching for the waistband of my pants when—

SLAM.

The bathroom door flew open with such force it hit the wall.

I screamed, my hands instinctively moving to cover my bare boobs but it was too late.

A man stood in the doorway.

Not just any man.

He was devastatingly handsome in a way that seemed almost cruel. Tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out his black dress shirt perfectly. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms marked with faint scars and intricate tattoos that disappeared under the fabric. His jaw was sharp, covered with a carefully maintained stubble that only enhanced his masculine features. Dark hair, slightly longer on top and styled back, though a few strands had fallen forward across his forehead.

But it was his eyes that held me frozen. Dark, intense, and completely devoid of warmth. They swept over my half-naked body with the same casual interest someone might give to a piece of furniture.

I hadn’t seen him clearly earlier when he came knocking, but I knew this had to be Marcel Dante.

I stood there, topless, my pants still on but unbuttoned. My arms instinctively crossed over my bare breasts.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice deep and commanding.

I froze.

“Don’t cover up,” he continued, taking a step into the bathroom.

Every instinct screamed at me to grab something, anything, to hide myself. But something in his voice, in those cold eyes, rooted me to the spot.

I remained frozen, exposed, as Marcel Dante’s dark gaze traveled over my naked skin.