Chapter 5 - The study door

Layla tells herself she’s just looking for the bathroom.

It’s an easy lie. One she almost believes. The penthouse is large and unfamiliar, its hallways stretching longer than they should, doors half-hidden by shadow and soft lighting. She steps away from the kitchen quietly, the sound of Sofia’s laughter fading behind her, replaced by a hush that feels intentional.

The hallway is warmer than the rest of the apartment. Quieter. The kind of quiet that presses against her ears, asking her to pay attention.

She reaches the end of it before she realises she’s stopped walking.

A door stands slightly ajar.

Light spills through the narrow opening, gold and steady, cutting through the dimness. She hears the faint clink of glass, the rustle of paper. A presence she doesn’t need to see to recognise.

She should turn around.

Instead, she lifts her hand and nudges the door open.

The study is nothing like the rest of the penthouse.

It’s darker, more enclosed, the walls lined with shelves full of books that don’t look decorative. Hardcovers with worn spines. Titles that suggest strategy, history, economics. The desk is heavy wood, solid and unadorned, its surface neat to the point of severity. Papers are stacked in precise piles. A leather notebook lies open beside a crystal tumbler, amber liquid catching the light.

And next to it, unmistakable even at a glance, is a gun.

Not hidden. Not dramatic. Just there, like it belongs.

Luca sits behind the desk, sleeves rolled, tie gone, one elbow resting on the surface as he studies a document. He looks up the moment she steps inside.

He doesn’t look surprised.

“You’re not lost,” he says calmly.

Layla swallows. “I might be.”

“If you were,” he replies, setting the paper aside, “you’d have gone the other way.”

Her pulse trips. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” His gaze flicks briefly to the door behind her. “You meant to hesitate.”

She doesn’t know how to answer that.

“Come in or don’t,” Luca continues. “But don’t linger in doorways. It’s indecisive.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

Layla steps fully into the room. The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds far too final.

The air shifts.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, the words coming out more like a question.

“I know.” He leans back in his chair slightly, studying her. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you?”

Because you’re here, her mind answers before she can stop it.

“Curiosity,” she says instead.

His mouth curves faintly. “That’s rarely harmless.”

Her gaze drifts, against her will, back to the desk. To the gun.

“You don’t hide much,” she observes.

“I hide what matters,” he replies. “That doesn’t.”

Her eyes snap back to his. “That’s… unsettling.”

“Good,” he says. “It should be.”

He rises then, unhurried, moving around the desk with deliberate ease. He stops a few steps away, close enough that she can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fine lines near his eyes that make him look both younger and more dangerous.

“Sofia doesn’t trust me,” he says, as if commenting on the weather.

Layla stiffens. “She’s protective.”

“She’s observant,” Luca counters. “That’s different.”

“And your wife?” Layla asks quietly. “She does trust you.”

He considers that for a moment. “She trusts what I can do. Not who I am.”

Something in his tone tells her that distinction matters more than it sounds.

“They talk about you,” he continues. “Both of them.”

Her chest tightens. “About me?”

“Frequently,” he says. “The responsible one. The good influence. The girl who keeps Sofia from burning her life down.”

Layla exhales slowly. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know.” His gaze sharpens. “But it puts you in a position whether you want it or not.”

“What position is that?”

“Someone worth protecting,” he replies.

The word sends a shiver through her.

“I don’t need protection,” she says, even as her voice softens.

“No,” Luca agrees. “But you receive it anyway. That’s how these things work.”

He steps closer, closing the space with the same care he’s used all evening. Layla doesn’t move. She’s not sure she can.

“You’re twenty,” he says. “Old enough to choose. Young enough that people will call it a mistake if it goes wrong.”

“And you?” she asks. “What would they call it for you?”

He pauses. Just long enough to be intentional. “They would call it predictable.”

Her breath catches. “And would they be right?”

His eyes darken. “No.”

He lifts his hand slowly, deliberately, giving her time. Space. A choice.

She doesn’t step back.

His fingers hook lightly beneath her chin, tilting her face up. The touch is gentle. The control absolute.

“Look at me,” he says.

Layla does.

For a moment, everything else falls away. The city. Sofia’s laughter. The rules she knows she’s skirting dangerously close to.

“There are men who take,” Luca murmurs. “And men who wait.”

His thumb brushes just beneath her lower lip, not touching it, but close enough that she feels the heat of him there.

“Waiting,” he continues, “requires discipline. Restraint. It means knowing exactly how far you can go without crossing the line.”

Her pulse pounds. “And you’re very good at that.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re struggling?”

For the first time, something like tension cracks his composure. Just a flicker. Gone almost immediately.

“Because you’re standing too close,” he replies.

She swallows. “You didn’t move away.”

“No.”

“Why?”

His thumb hovers near her mouth now, the anticipation sharp and aching. “Because you haven’t asked me to.”

Her breath shudders. “And if I did?”

“I would stop,” he says instantly.

The certainty in his voice is absolute.

“But,” he adds, softer now, “I would remember.”

The weight of that promise settles between them.

From the hallway comes the sound of footsteps, voices drifting closer. Reality presses back in.

Luca lowers his hand first, stepping away with deliberate restraint. The distance feels abrupt. Necessary.

“You should go,” he says. “Before Sofia wonders why you disappeared.”

Layla nods, heart racing. She turns toward the door, her hand hovering over the handle.

“Layla,” Luca says.

She looks back.

“If you keep testing boundaries,” he says quietly, “eventually you’ll find the one that doesn’t bend.”

Her pulse jumps. “Is that a warning?”

“It’s information.”

She leaves the study without looking back.

But long after the door closes behind her, she can still feel the echo of his touch beneath her chin, the weight of his attention following her down the hall.

She rejoins Sofia and her mum with a smile that feels slightly unreal, her body buzzing with everything she didn’t say.

And somewhere behind her, in a room that feels far too close, Luca Moretti returns to his desk, jaw tight, discipline fraying at the edges.

He doesn’t follow her.

He doesn’t need to.

The door between them has already been opened.