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A Man Made of Silence
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2025-06-10 17:51:22
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Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers Not all heroes wear masks
The city changed as I left the café. At first, it was subtle—a black car that lingered too long at a turn, a woman with a phone pointed just a second too long in my direction. I tightened the collar of my sweater and kept my face angled away from the street. But I knew that feeling. The air grows tighter. And the world, smaller. My driver opened the door for me, and I stepped into the backseat with practiced grace. We pulled away from Verde Fiore, winding through the ancient veins of Rome, heading toward the studio. The second rehearsal was due in less than an hour. I didn’t notice the third car until it sped up beside us. The first flash came like lightning. Then came another. And another. The sound of camera shutters, like mechanical gunfire, filled the space around us. My driver cursed under his breath. “Signorina—paparazzi.” I turned sharply. Three cars now. One directly behind us. One to the left, keeping pace. One ahead, slowing to block our path. From ever
Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers A Man Made of Silence
The office was too quiet, even for someone who’d come to love silence. Or maybe not love it—just forget how to hate it. The rain tapped against the glass of the penthouse windows as I stood staring at the city skyline, the vast sprawl of glass and chrome stretching beneath me. It should have felt triumphant. It didn’t. "Mr. Whitlock, the Tokyo team has confirmed the merger." I didn’t look away from the window. "Put it on my desk. I’ll review it later." "Yes, sir." I heard the secretary retreat, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. I waited for the door to close with a muted hiss before finally turning. The office was sharp and sterile. Mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with untouched books, and a liquor cabinet I never used. The only thing personal in the entire room was a single velvet box in the bottom drawer of my desk—locked, untouched. My reflection caught in the glass. The tailored black suit, the gray eyes that no longer sparked, the hair
Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers My shadow in black suit
The city was quiet at dawn. Rome always woke slowly—like a lover reluctant to leave bed, curling back into warmth and marble silence. I stood by the tall window of my apartment, my hands wrapped around a cup of black tea. Below me, the street was just beginning to stir. A Vespa buzzed. A café owner unlocked his doors. The sky above was pale lavender, the kind of color that made me feel like I had already danced through a dream. I turned away from the view and moved through the apartment—barefoot on cool, polished floors, the silk hem of my robe whispering at my ankles. My rehearsal bag was packed. Hairpins ready. Pointe shoes tucked in like sleeping swans. A knock at the door broke the quiet. Three knocks. Not loud. Not urgent. Just... expectant. I didn’t even need to ask. It was him. I opened the door and found him standing there. Black suit, no tie, simple white shirt. Tall, lean, not brutish. The kind of man who blended into any hotel lobby or opera house. You wouldn’t rememb
Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers This is my world now
The city of Rome gleamed beneath the dusky sky, its ancient streets echoing the low hum of life. After the warm dinner with Mama and Papa, I returned to my sanctuary—the apartment that cradled the version of me the world knew as Amara Liora. The Swan of Rome. The driver pulled up to the front of the building, and the doorman, Roberto, greeted me with a warm smile. " Good night, miss." "Good night, Roberto," I replied softly, stepping out as he opened the door for me. I nodded politely, tired but glowing from the comfort of home. The building was tucked in the quieter part of Trastevere, away from the tourists and noise. But nothing about it was modest. A beautiful blend of classic Roman architecture with subtle modern elegance, its cream façade held wrought-iron balconies adorned with red and white flowers. I took the private elevator to the top floor—my floor. The doors opened with a soft chime and I stepped into my apartment. Light spilled across marble floors, polished to a mu
Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers Where light feels warm
The sky over Rome shimmered like brushed gold, melting softly into lilac as the sun began to sink into the arms of evening. My heels clicked gently on the polished floor of the studio, echoing faintly, like the last memory of music still hanging in the air. The interview had gone well. I’d smiled, answered kindly, even laughed once. But my eyes had strayed once or twice toward the fading sky beyond the arched windows—toward home. A different kind of spotlight waited for me there. Warmer. Quieter. I stepped into the backseat of the sleek black car. The driver greeted me with a nod, and we slid into traffic. I leaned my head against the window, watching the ancient streets blur past, golden lamps flickering to life, shadows dancing on cobbled stone. --- Their house stood at the edge of the Tiber River, on the quiet side of the city where green ivy laced through marble balustrades and the windows always glowed with golden light. It wasn’t just a house—it was a villa, a sprawling blen
Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers The interview
I was still breathing through the echo of the final note, my chest rising and falling with the memory of the spotlight. Caelum was somewhere nearby—smiling easily, his suit tailored to perfection, the picture of charm. The golden embroidery on my white gown glistened as I was led toward the lounge, where the interviews would take place. Applause still throbbed like a second heartbeat from the other side of the walls. I adjusted the sleeves of my dress, pulling composure over my body like another layer of costume. "Miss Amara Liora, the Swan of Rome," a journalist said warmly, rising from his seat with awe stitched into his voice. “Tonight’s performance was described as ethereal, revolutionary... almost mythic. How do you feel, having captivated Rome once again?” I smiled—soft, professional, practiced. “I feel honored,” I said. “And grateful. There is no stage quite like Rome. The energy here—it’s ancient and alive. Every performance feels like dancing in conversation with the
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