Chapter 2 - The Man in the Doorway

The sound of the front door closing isn’t loud.

It doesn’t slam or echo through the penthouse. It’s controlled. Precise. And yet the effect is immediate, like a switch being flipped somewhere beneath the surface of the room.

The housekeeper straightens. Sofia’s mum smooths a hand down the front of her dress. Even Sofia’s shoulders tense, just slightly, as if her body reacts before her mind does.

Layla turns.

The man standing there is younger than she expected.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black suit that fits him like armour rather than clothing. His shirt is crisp, collar open at the throat, dark hair neatly styled with not a single strand out of place. His face is calm in a way that feels deliberate rather than relaxed - as if composure is something he chooses, not something that happens naturally.

He closes the door behind him with unhurried precision and surveys the room once, efficiently. When his gaze lands on Layla, it doesn’t move.

“This is Luca,” Sofia says, her tone carefully flat. “My stepdad.”

The word lands awkwardly. It doesn’t suit him. He looks too sharp, too self-possessed, too young to belong to that role. Layla feels an odd flicker of dissonance, like the pieces don’t quite fit together.

“So,” he says, voice low and smooth, edged with something she can’t name. “You’re Layla.”

Her name in his mouth feels like a touch.

“You’ve… heard of me,” she says, immediately wishing she’d chosen something less obvious.

Sofia snorts. “He’s heard of you, Mum’s heard of you, the neighbours probably know your blood type.”

Luca’s mouth curves by a fraction. Not a smile. An acknowledgement.

“Your name comes up,” he says calmly. “Frequently.”

Layla shifts her weight, suddenly aware of her posture, her hands, the faint buzz beneath her skin. “All good things, I hope.”

His eyes don’t leave hers. “So I’m told.”

He steps closer, bridging the space between them with effortless ease, and holds out his hand. Layla hesitates for half a heartbeat before placing hers in his.

His grip is firm and warm, controlled without being crushing. She feels the strength there, contained rather than displayed. Up close, she notices the faint scar near his knuckle, the clean scent of something expensive, the way his attention seems to sharpen rather than soften at proximity.

“Happy birthday,” he says. “Twenty, isn’t it?”

“How did you-?”

“Your party is ostensibly for you,” he replies mildly. “It would be rude not to know.”

Something about the way he says it makes it sound like more than politeness-like he pays attention because he chooses to.

“Thank you,” she says. “For… having me.”

“That was non-negotiable,” he replies, releasing her hand. His gaze sweeps over her once - brief, precise, and somehow more intimate than if he’d stared. “You’re important to them.”

To them, Layla notes. Not to you.

“Come,” Sofia’s mum says brightly, clapping her hands together. “Let’s eat before everything goes cold. Luca, pour the wine.”

“I’m not being intimidating,” Luca says mildly, reaching for the bottle.

“You exist,” Sofia mutters. “That’s enough.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. He pours the wine with measured movements, setting glasses down without clinking them unnecessarily. Layla watches without meaning to, struck by how deliberate he is. Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed.

At the table, conversation flows easily. Sofia complains about work. Her mum laughs too loudly at jokes she’s already heard. Luca listens more than he speaks, interjecting only when necessary.

Layla becomes acutely aware of his attention-not constant, but consistent. He notices when she hesitates before answering a question. When she listens more than she talks. When she laughs at Sofia’s sarcasm but stays quiet during arguments.

“You don’t interrupt,” he observes at one point.

She blinks. “I… don’t?”

“No,” he says. “You wait until people finish. Most don’t.”

Sofia rolls her eyes. “She’s polite, not enlightened.”

“Politeness is a form of discipline,” Luca replies calmly. “Most people lack it.”

Layla’s pulse quickens. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation,” he says. Then, after a pause, “You’re not easily underestimated. People just think you are.”

The words linger long after the conversation moves on.

By the time dinner ends, Layla feels strangely unsettled. Not uncomfortable. Not threatened. Just… seen in a way she isn’t used to.

And as she rises from the table, she becomes aware of something else too.

Luca hasn’t touched her again.

But he hasn’t stopped watching.