Chapter 3

Waking up was not a slow, peaceful drift into consciousness. It was a sudden, jarring return to a reality Evelina prayed had been a nightmare.

She gasped, sitting bolt upright in the massive bed, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. For a second, she didn’t know where she was. The air was too cold. The sheets were too smooth. The silence was too heavy.

Then, the smell hit her, sandalwood, expensive cleaning agents, and the distinct lack of dust.

Dante.

She fell back against the pillows, the crushing weight of the previous day settling onto her chest like a concrete slab. She was in the tower. She was the property of the man upstairs.

Evelina threw off the heavy duvet, the charcoal silk pooling around her waist. She looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. 06:00.

She had slept in the clothes she arrived in, her worn cotton shirt and skirt. They were wrinkled now, smelling of yesterday’s sweat and fear, but they were the only things in this room that felt like her.

She swung her legs out of bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The sun was rising over the city, painting the skyscrapers in bruised purples and bloody oranges. It was a magnificent view, the kind of view billionaires killed for. But from here, looking through the inch-thick bulletproof glass, the city looked like a painting she wasn’t allowed to touch.

She pressed her hand against the glass. It was freezing.

I am in a cage, she thought, the panic rising in her throat again, hot and acidic. A very expensive, very high cage.

She needed to move. She needed to do something that wasn’t sanctioned, something that wasn’t part of his “parameters.”

She went to the kitchen. The chrome espresso machine gleamed on the marble counter like a sentry, judging her. She ignored it. She opened the cupboard where she had found the tea bags and the chipped mug yesterday.

She found a small, crinkled packet of instant coffee she had shoved in her pocket days ago, a remnant of her old life. She tore it open. The smell, bitter, burnt, cheap, filled the sterile kitchen. It smelled like her apartment. It smelled like freedom.

She boiled water in the kettle, defiant in the silence. She poured the water into the chipped mug and stirred it with the silver spoon, watching the dark liquid swirl.

She took a sip. It tasted terrible. It tasted perfect.

She carried the mug to the living room, intending to sit and plot, to find a loophole in the contract, to find a way to breathe.

But the elevator doors slid open.

Evelina froze, the mug halfway to her mouth.

It wasn’t Dante. It was a team.

Three women and two men stepped out of the elevator, moving with the synchronized efficiency of a pit crew. They pushed racks of clothing, carried stacks of boxes, and wheeled in a three way mirror that looked like it belonged backstage at a fashion show.

Maria, the assistant, followed them. She held a tablet, her face as expressionless as a mannequin.

“Good morning, Miss Thorne,” Maria said. She didn’t look at Evelina’s face; she looked at the wrinkled cotton shirt. “Mr. Valenti has ordered a complete inventory and restructuring of your presentation. We are on a tight schedule.”

Evelina lowered the mug. “What is this?”

“Asset management,” Maria replied. She gestured to the team. “Strip.”

Evelina took a step back, her grip on the mug tightening. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Valenti requires you to be dressed appropriately for your role. Your current attire is… insufficient. The tailors need to measure you for adjustments.”

“I have clothes in the closet,” Evelina snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the bedroom. “A whole museum of them.”

“Those were preliminary,” Maria said, checking her watch. “Mr. Valenti requires precision. Please, Miss Thorne. Do not make this difficult. The team is paid by the hour, and Mr. Valenti does not like waste.”

One of the women, a severe blonde with pins in her mouth, stepped forward with a measuring tape.

“Arms up, please,” she mumbled around the pins.

Evelina felt a wave of humiliation wash over her, hot and stinging. They weren’t asking. They were waiting.

She set the coffee mug down on a side table. It left a small, damp ring on the wood. A tiny mark of rebellion.

She didn’t strip. She stood there, rigid. “I can dress myself. Leave the clothes.”

“The clothes must be fitted,” Maria stated. “Now.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a threat wrapped in silk.

For the next two hours, Evelina was poked, prodded, and turned like a doll. They stripped her down to her underwear, faded cotton panties and a bra that had seen better days. They didn’t speak to her; they spoke about her.

“Torso is long.” “Waist needs taking in.” “Shoulders are tense, the fabric is bunching.”

They draped her in heavy silks, scratchy wools, and structured linens. They pinned fabric so tight she could barely breathe. They measured her inseam, her bust, and the circumference of her neck. It was clinical. It was dehumanizing. It was an inventory of flesh.

Evelina stood in front of the three way mirror, staring at her reflection. She looked like a stranger. The woman in the mirror was wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a silk blouse that cost more than her father’s car. Her hair had been brushed and pinned back aggressively. She looked expensive. She looked owned.

“The evening wear,” Maria announced.

The team brought out a garment bag. They unzipped it, revealing a gown of liquid black silk. It was backless, long sleeved, and terrifyingly elegant.

“Mr. Valenti requests you try this on for final approval,” Maria said.

“Approval?” Evelina asked, her voice brittle. “Is he a fashion critic now?”

“He is the owner of the collection,” Maria said simply. “And you are part of the collection.”

Evelina let them put her in the dress. The silk slid over her skin like cool water. It clung to every curve, exposing the line of her spine, the slope of her hips. It was beautiful, and it made her feel naked.

The tailor was just adjusting the hem when the elevator chimed again.

The air in the room changed instantly. The chatter of the stylists stopped. The tailors stepped back, heads bowed slightly.

Dante walked in.

He was wearing a dark blue suit today, the jacket unbuttoned. He didn’t look at the staff. He didn’t look at the racks of clothes. His eyes went straight to Evelina, standing in the center of the room in the black gown.

He stopped ten feet away. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

He walked a slow circle around her. He didn’t say a word. He inspected her from every angle, his gaze touching her bare back, her neck, the way the silk pooled at her feet. It wasn’t a look of desire; it was a look of appraisal. He was checking for flaws.

He stopped in front of her. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Turn,” he commanded.

Evelina clenched her jaw. “I am not a mannequin.”

“You are wearing my investment,” Dante said softly. “Turn.”

She turned. Slowly. Definitely.

Dante watched the fabric move. He stepped closer. He reached out.

Evelina flinched, her breath catching.

Dante’s hand didn’t touch her skin. He reached for the neckline of the dress, which was slightly askew. He adjusted the silk with a precise, delicate movement, his knuckles grazing her collarbone. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her that made her knees weak.

“The fit is imperfect,” Dante said, not looking at her eyes, but at the fabric. “It bunches at the shoulder. Fix it.”

The tailor scrambled forward, apologizing profusely, pins flying.

Dante ignored him. He looked at Evelina’s face. He saw the flush of humiliation on her cheeks, the fire in her green eyes.

“You hate it,” he observed.

“It feels like a costume,” Evelina spat out. “I look like a gangster’s moll.”

Dante’s lips twitched. “You look like value. You look like you are competent. In my world, Evelina, appearance is a weapon. I am arming you.”

“I didn’t ask for weapons. I asked for a job.”

“And this is the uniform,” he said. He stepped back, dismissing her with a glance. “Take it off. Pack the rest. The wardrobe is approved.”

He turned to Maria. “Clear the room. I need to speak with Miss Thorne alone.”

The team vanished with impossible speed. Within two minutes, the racks were gone, the boxes removed, and the mirror wheeled away. The door clicked shut.

Evelina was left standing in the black gown, barefoot on the polished concrete.

Dante walked to the kitchen island. He leaned against it, watching her.

“You have work to do today,” he said. “The inventory of the Renaissance acquisitions is incomplete. I need a full provenance check on the Medici tapestry by noon.”

“I can’t work in this,” Evelina said, gesturing to the gown.

“Then change,” he said. “But not back into rags. You will wear what I provided.”

He paused. His eyes narrowed. He pushed off the counter and walked to the side table in the living area, the table where she had left her mug.

He picked it up.

The cheap, chipped white mug with the instant coffee. It was cold now, a dark, oily film on the surface.

Dante looked at it with genuine disgust.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Coffee,” Evelina said, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to cover her bare skin. “My coffee.”

“It smells like burnt rubber,” Dante said.

He walked to the kitchen. He poured the coffee down the sink.

Evelina took a step forward. “That was mine.”

“It was garbage,” Dante said calmly. He dropped the mug into the trash compactor. Clatter. “We do not keep garbage in this house, Evelina. We have standards.”

He turned to the chrome espresso machine. He pressed a button. The machine whirred to life, grinding fresh beans. The smell of rich, expensive coffee filled the room, overpowering the faint scent of her rebellion.

He made a cup. He placed it on the marble counter.

“Drink,” he ordered.

“I don’t want your coffee,” Evelina said, her voice trembling with rage. “I want my things. I want my life.”

“Your life is here,” Dante said. He walked toward her again. He didn’t stop until he was crowding her space, forcing her to look up.

He reached out and gripped her chin. His fingers were strong, holding her face still. He forced her to look at him.

“Listen to me,” he whispered, his voice dark and low. “You are holding onto scraps of a life that failed you. That cheap coffee? That worn shirt? They are symbols of poverty. Of struggle. Of a father who sold you to save himself.”

Evelina tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

“I stripped them away,” Dante said. “Not to hurt you. But to clear the slate. You are not a victim anymore, Evelina. You are Valenti property. And Valenti property does not drink instant coffee. Valenti property does not wear rags.”

He released her chin. The skin tingled where he had touched her.

“Go change,” he commanded. “Put on the grey suit. Drink the coffee. And get to work. You have a debt to pay.”

He turned and walked to the elevator. He didn’t look back.

Evelina stood in the center of the room, the taste of tears in her throat. She looked at the trash compactor where her mug lay broken. She looked at the perfect, steaming cup of espresso on the counter.

She wanted to smash it. She wanted to scream.

But the memory of Chloe’s face, safe in a hospital bed, flashed in her mind.

Evelina walked to the counter. She picked up the expensive coffee. She took a sip.

It was delicious. rich, smooth, perfect.

And she hated it more than anything she had ever tasted.

She went to the bedroom to put on the grey suit. She was learning the rules of the cage. He wouldn’t just lock the door. He would redecorate the cell until she forgot what freedom looked like.