Chapter Three - Regret goes both ways

I let my head droop, hair falling around my face like a tangled curtain, shoulders trembling just visibly enough. I knew how to cry without tears. How to breathe like I was breaking. How to make a man think he had already won.

I tried again with the guards because a frightened girl would.

“P-please,” I whimpered, voice scratchy. “Can one of you… just loosen the cuffs? They’re cutting into my wrists.”

Marco shifted like he wanted to.

Rocco shut that down with a glare.

“No talking to her,” he snapped.

Marco swallowed. “She’s freezing.”

“I said no.”

I added a tiny whimper — desperation mixed with defeat. “Please… please… it hurts…”

Marco looked tortured.

Rocco looked bored.

Good.

Emotion is leverage.

Apathy is predictable.

But neither moved.

Fine. Let them ignore me.

The real game wasn’t with them anyway.

It was with their king.

And right on cue, the sound of boots on stairs echoed down the basement hall.

Finally.

I straightened minutely — not enough to break character, just enough to sense his presence. The air shifted when he entered, heavy and demanding. The guards stood rigid.

Dante Valenti stepped into the dim light, carrying something.

Food.

A thick sandwich wrapped in paper… and a blanket draped over his arm. Warm-looking. Soft. Torturously appealing to someone who’d been left to freeze on stone.

My breathing hitched on cue.

His gaze flicked to me, slow and assessing, then lingered.

He was dangerous like this — quiet, unreadable, carved from shadow and violence in a tailored black shirt. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak to command obedience.

He stepped closer, boots echoing.

I lowered my eyes and bit my lip tremulously.

Anything to look small.

He crouched a few feet away, placing the sandwich on the ground with exaggerated care. The blanket remained folded over his wrist.

“Aria,” he said, voice like velvet wrapped around a blade, “we’re going to talk.”

My heart didn’t speed up.

But I made it look like it did.

“P-please,” I whispered. “I-I’ll answer whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

He smiled faintly. Not kind. Not convinced.

Amused.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Unless you lie to me.”

My stomach tightened.

Not with fear — with irritation.

He was going to be difficult.

Dante lifted the blanket slightly, letting the softness brush my shoulder from a distance.

“Cold, aren’t you?”

I nodded pitifully.

“You can earn this,” he murmured. “Answer questions right, and you get warmth.”

He held the sandwich up next.

“And food.”

He locked eyes with me — a hunter indulging prey he already knew he’d catch.

“And maybe,” he added, “I’ll even loosen those cuffs.”

God, he was good at this.

If I didn’t know he was a monster, I might’ve admired him.

“Y-yes,” I whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Oh,” he said with a soft laugh, “I know you’ll try, little captive. The question is whether you’ll succeed.”

He lowered the blanket to the ground just out of reach and settled in front of me, elbows resting on his knees.

“First question.”

My breath faltered theatrically.

“What were you doing in the east wing of the Moretti estate when my men found you?”

I let my lip wobble. “I-I got lost—”

His brows lifted.

Slow.

Skeptical.

Borderline entertained.

“Lost,” he echoed. “In your own home.”

“Yes,” I insisted weakly. “There were… noises. I hid. I didn’t know—”

“Wrong answer.”

My pulse didn’t change, but I gasped like ice water hit my veins.

“N-no, I—I’m telling the truth—”

“Aria.” He leaned close enough that I felt his breath brush my cheek. “Your home has three east-wing hallways. You weren’t ‘lost.’ You were waiting.”

My stomach dropped.

Not from fear.

From frustration.

He noticed too much.

I blinked rapidly, injecting my voice with shaking dread. “I swear—”

He held up a finger, silencing me gently. “Next question.”

He reached out and touched my wrist where the cuff bit into skin. Warm fingers brushed cold flesh.

My breath stuttered involuntarily.

Not part of the act.

He noticed — his eyes flicked up briefly — but he didn’t comment.

“Why didn’t you scream when we took you?” he asked softly.

Because I wanted you to take me.

But I gave the performance of a trembling captive remembering trauma.

“I… I was too scared to make a sound…”

He hummed — low, skeptical.

A man who didn’t believe a word.

“Fear makes people scream,” he said. “Not silence.”

I wilted like a flower crushed at the stem. “Please… please don’t make me say more…”

Still acting.

Still lying.

Still perfect.

But something in his expression shifted — a glint of admiration, interest… something dangerously close to desire.

Forbidden.

Unwelcome.

Useful.

He stood slowly, picking up the blanket again. Folded it once. Twice. His gaze never left my face.

Then he tossed it onto my lap.

I made myself gasp like a grateful, terrified girl — but inside, irritation flared hot under my ribs.

He knew.

He knew I was lying.

Not fully — not enough to call me out — but enough that he was clearly humoring me.

That was dangerous.

And insulting.

“Why… why give me this?” I whispered.

He tilted his head. “Because you’re trying so very hard.”

Not because he believed me.

Not because he pitied me.

Because he was amused.

Heat crept up my neck — not fear, but frustration. I’d played helpless for years. Men always fell for it. They always broke before I did.

Dante Valenti wasn’t breaking.

He stepped back slowly, eyes dragging over me in a way that made my skin prickle. Not lust. Not yet. But something… close. Something threatening in its interest.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly.

My heart tripped in my chest — not part of the act.

But he turned away, missing it.

The basement door groaned open. The lock clicked. His boots climbed one step… two… three.

I let the blanket fall from my lap and exhaled sharply through my nose, my irritation finally slipping through the mask in the privacy of my own head.

He’s not buying it. Not completely.

He was supposed to see a trembling porcelain doll.

A terrified little bird.

Instead he saw… cracks.

As the door shut behind him, I forced my expression to collapse again, fragile and broken.

But my thoughts were razor-sharp:

Fine, Dante Valenti. Let’s see how long you can keep this up.

Because if he wanted to play with me…

I’d make damn sure he regretted it.