Chapter 5 – The Gifts He Sends, The Fire She Rejects

Sera could feel him.

Not see him. Not hear him.

But *feel* him.

There were nights, when she stepped out onto the stage, the weight of his eyes hit her like a flame, blistering down the length of her back.

He never made himself seen.

Never returned to her dressing room. Never requested her in secret again.

But he was always there.

In the shadows. In the VIP room. In the smoky rooms of the club where men of power lounged like gods.

*Watching.*

Sera hated the way her body responded to it. The way the thought of his dark eyes watching her every step made her feel a pulse between her thighs.

She danced for the paycheck.

She danced for her brother.

But when Valerio Moretti was around, she danced with an edge sharper than survival.

She danced like rebellion.

And she could sense—it only made him desire her more.

The first gift arrived three nights later.

A black velvet box, smooth, fit neatly into her locker after work. Inside: a diamond choker, icy and sparkling like frost on a winter sword. The note was written by hand, scrawled in elegant, masculine script:

> "To adorn the neck that dares defy me."

She threw it in the trash.

The second present came the next evening.

A pair of stilettos—blood-red Louboutins, her exact size. And a note.

> "To make you look back at me when you walk away."

She left them on the manager's desk and told him to return it to the sender.

The third present came wrapped in black silk.

Spread out on the dresser like a challenge: a midnight-blue lace lingerie, delicate and mischievous.

Sera's gasp when she opened the box.

She could feel his hands in each stitch—the luxurious fabric, the small gold V-shaped pendant between the cups, the scent of his cologne on the silk as if he'd run his hands over it himself.

The note was short this time.

> "Wear this, or wear nothing. I'll still be watching."

Her cheeks flushed. Her legs squeezed together reflexively.

But she still returned it.

With a letter of her own.

> "Try someone else, Moretti. I don't break for billionaires."

That evening, she felt his eyes even more acutely.

She didn't have to look to know he was there. Her body reacted before her eyes could inform her—nipples tightening, heat curling low in her stomach.

He didn't move toward her.

He didn't have to.

His mere presence was an invisible hand around her throat.

---

Valerio sipped his scotch from the darkest booth in the club, watching her dance with that same strange stiffness—beautiful, captivating, but unapproachable. Still unapproachable.

Still his *favorite game*.

He could have had her weeks ago.

One word, one threat, one wave of power—and she would have buckled like the others.

But not Sera.

She turned diamonds like glass. Lingerie like rags. Notes like hollow words.

And each *no* she said to him was a thread binding her closer to his interest.

He liked the way she pushed him.

He liked how much self-control it took not to touch her.

He loved to fantasize about the way she'd look the first time he finally did.

*Dying.*

The next day, he went further.

---

Sera returned from her shift, exhausted, battered, and still convulsing from the heat that clung to her like a shroud since Valerio entered her life.

Her apartment was an ancient one, the hallway lights struggling like a dying beat. She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and came to a stop.

There, on the kitchen counter, was a small envelope.

No stamp. No name.

Just her.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

Shaking, she opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

Of her and her brother, two years before. Before diagnosis. Before the world fell apart around them.

On the back, a note in that same spiky handwriting.

> "I don't want to break you, Sera. I want to save you. Let me."

Her breath caught.

He knew.

He knew about Eli.

About why she danced. Why she kept going.

Her chest tightened with something like panic—something like heat. *How?* Why would he—

She threw the letter down in the sink and turned on the faucet, watching the ink wash down the drain like blood.

But later, dancing, her legs trembled. Her mind burned. Her eyes wandered perpetually to the shadows where she *knew* he watched her, even as she never saw him.

*He was getting too close.*

---

Valerio sat by himself in his penthouse later, phone clutched, staring at the screen.

There was a message still waiting to be sent.

> "Did you like the picture?"

He deleted it.

He didn't want to send her running.

He wanted her to *come to him*.

Of her own accord.

Needily.

On her knees.

And that required patience.

Patience… and pressure.

The gifts were only the beginning.

He was done waiting.