Chapter 3 - His house, his rules

After dinner, the penthouse loosens.

Music hums softly from unseen speakers. Sofia’s mum disappears into the kitchen with the housekeeper, animated and laughing. Sofia perches on the edge of the counter, scrolling through her phone and launching into a familiar rant about her ex.

Layla’s feet ache. She slips out of her heels without thinking, sighing softly as the cool marble soothes the sting.

She takes two barefoot steps.

Then-

“Shoes.”

The word cuts cleanly through the room.

Sofia stops mid-sentence. Layla looks up.

Luca stands in the doorway to the kitchen, jacket gone, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair. He looks younger without the suit jacket, but no less commanding. His expression is calm. His tone is not unkind.

“Sorry?” Layla asks.

His gaze drops briefly to her bare feet, then returns to her face. “There was glass earlier,” he says. “You didn’t see it. I did. I don’t like people getting hurt in my house.”

The way he says my house sends a shiver through her.

“I didn’t realise,” she says, stepping back into her heels.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Sofia scowls. “You could have said that without sounding like a mob boss.”

“I could have,” Luca agrees. “But you’d have ignored it.”

He looks back at Layla. “You didn’t.”

The praise is quiet, understated, and it lands far heavier than she expects.

When he leaves the room, Sofia slides off the counter and drags Layla closer. “See? This is what I mean. He’s always watching. Always correcting.”

“He stopped me stepping on glass,” Layla says gently.

“That’s not the point,” Sofia insists. “He frames everything like protection. Mum eats it up because he’s younger and charming and never raises his voice.”

Layla glances down the hallway where Luca disappeared. “Does he ever lose his temper?”

Sofia snorts. “That’s what scares me.”

Later, as the evening stretches on, Layla wanders toward the windows, drawn to the view. The city glitters below, distant and unreal.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” Luca says behind her.

She turns. “I wasn’t leaving yet. I just needed air.”

“You walked into a quieter space,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

She hesitates. “Is that… not allowed?”

He studies her for a moment. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you know where you are.”

The air between them tightens. Layla becomes suddenly aware of how close she’s standing, how little space there is to retreat without making it obvious.

“I do,” she says softly.

“Do you?” His gaze drops briefly, deliberately, to her mouth before lifting again. “This is my house. People follow rules here, even when they don’t realise they’re doing it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They learn,” he says simply.

Her pulse quickens. “Are you teaching me something?”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Not yet.”

He steps back, creating distance with the same care he closed it.

“You should rejoin Sofia,” he adds. “She worries when she can’t see you.”

That shouldn’t sound like a warning.

It does.

As Layla walks away, she knows one thing with quiet certainty:

Luca Moretti isn’t controlling because he raises his voice or makes demands.

He’s controlling because the world seems to rearrange itself around him -

and she’s starting to realise she’s doing it too.

As Layla walks back toward the kitchen, she becomes acutely aware of how differently the space feels now. The penthouse hasn’t changed, but her understanding of it has. This isn’t just a beautiful apartment with glass walls and soft lighting. It’s controlled. Curated. Every object placed with intention, every open space designed to be seen from somewhere else.

She catches Luca’s reflection in the window as she passes. He isn’t looking at the city. He’s watching her.

Not openly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Just enough to let her know he’s aware of exactly where she is, how fast she’s moving, and when she finally disappears into the warmth and noise of the kitchen.

The knowledge settles deep.

This is his house.

And she is no longer just a guest passing through it.