All Chapters of SIGHTLESS OBSESSION : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Seraphina Vellaro – POV The study became my new world. Its dimensions were defined by the scent of old books and Lucian’s cologne, the feel of cool marble underfoot near the fireplace, and the specific, unchanging position of the heavy oak desk. For four hours each day, I was marooned in this island of controlled power, with the journal as my only compass. The first two days were an exercise in frustration. The journal was a physical echo of my mother, but its secrets remained stubbornly silent. My fingers, my most trusted guides, traced the lock, the cover, the edges, over and over. I could feel the minute variations in the leather, the slight warp of the board where it had once been damp. But it was just a book. A beautiful, inert, and mocking object. Lucian was a silent specter during these sessions. He never interrupted, rarely spoke. But I could feel his presence, a constant, oppressive pressure from the corner of the room where he sat, watching. I could hear the soft turn of

Seraphina Vellaro – POV The study felt different today. The air was charged, as if a storm had passed through and left the scent of ozone in its wake. I knew it was the lingering energy of my confrontation with Rose, and Lucian’s subsequent, unreadable reaction. He was already there when Appy led me in, a silent presence waiting by the fireplace. “Leave us,” he said to Appy, his voice cutting through the quiet. The door clicked shut, sealing me in with him. I didn’t wait for instruction. I moved to the desk, my hand finding the familiar leather-bound journal. It felt heavier today, the weight of expectation pressing down on me. Rose’s words,“Celeste’s old rubbish,”echoed mockingly in my mind. I would prove her wrong. “Well?” Lucian’s voice came from directly behind me, making me start. He was closer than I had realized. “Has the falcon found its grip?” I took a steadying breath, my fingers splaying across the cover. “The code is in the paper. I confirmed that. ‘Falcon’s grip’ den

Seraphina Vellaro – POV The map was etched behind my eyes, a phantom landscape built from memory and touch. In the solitude of the Rose Room, my fingers twitched, retracing the raised lines and symbols that had bloomed in blood. A bird in flight. A flower. A crown. It was a story my mother had left for me, written in a language only I could read. When Appy came to collect me for the study, her steps were more hesitant than usual.“Miss,”she began, her voice a nervous whisper once we were in the corridor. “Miss Rose… she’s in a state today. She was asking about you at breakfast. I thought you should know.” The warning was a cold stone in my gut. “Thank you, Appy.”The study felt like a battleground before the fight.Lucian was already at his desk, the journal open before him. He didn’t speak as I entered, but his attention was a physical weight, heavy and assessing. “The map,” I said, refusing to let the silence unnerve me. I took my seat. “I need to recreate it. I can’t hold all th

Seraphina Vellaro – POV The scent hit me the moment he entered the study. It was faint, masked by sandalwood and the crisp night air, but unmistakable: the coppery, metallic tang of fresh blood. It clung to him like a shadow, a brutal poem written in a language I understood all too well. My stomach tightened. He had been out. And someone had bled. He didn’t speak immediately. I heard him pour a drink, the clink of crystal loud in the tense silence. I kept my hands resting on the clay map, my face a carefully neutral mask. I would not ask. I would not give him the satisfaction of my fear. “Progress?” His voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual cold precision. There was a rawness to it, an edge that hadn’t been there before. “The map is complete,” I said, my own voice steady. “But it’s a structure without a location. I’ve been thinking about the lily.” I traced the flower symbol on the clay. “My mother loved Casablanca lilies. Their scent is… distinctive. Powerful. She once told

Seraphina Vellaro – POV Gloria’s arms around me were the first real anchor I’d had since my mother died. The scent of her—lavender and the faint, unmistakable smell of the old rosewater she always used—was a tidal wave of memory and safety. I clung to her, my fingers gripping the coarse wool of her cardigan, sobbing in great, heaving breaths that felt like they were tearing something rotten from my chest. “He told me you were dead,” I whispered again, the words muffled against her shoulder. “He lies, my falcon. He always has.” Her voice was a fierce, quiet rasp. Her hands, gnarled and strong, rubbed circles on my back. “I would have died before I abandoned you. I only left to save you.” “I know.” And I did. The journal, the escape, her desperate journey to the Morettis—it was all a testament to her love. “Are you hurt? Has he… has Lucian treated you well?” “Well enough,” she said, her tone careful. She pulled back slightly, her hands coming up to cup my face. Her thumbs gently wi