Chapter 2 - The Rules of the house

Dinner was silent except for the distant sound of rain against glass.

Zaria sat at the long dining table, the flickering light of the chandelier casting soft gold across her face. A servant had served her first—a courtesy she wasn’t used to. Ryan sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes on a file but attention always, somehow, on her.

She tried to eat quietly, but the weight of his gaze made her fork shake.

Finally she whispered, “You don’t have to watch me eat.”

He looked up. “Who said I was watching?”

She met his eyes, and he smiled faintly. “You’re nervous. That’s all.”

“You make people nervous,” she replied, surprising herself.

Ryan leaned back in his chair. “Only people with something to hide.”

Her throat tightened. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “Keep it that way.”

He came around to her side of the table, his presence filling the space. She froze when he reached for the napkin beside her plate, lifting it as though to wipe a drop of sauce from her lip—but his knuckles brushed her jaw instead. The touch was light, deliberate, and gone before she could breathe.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “you’ll need clothes. You can’t walk around my house like a guest.”

Her brows furrowed. “What am I supposed to walk around as?”

His voice dropped lower. “My wife.”

The next morning

The sun broke through the rain, spilling soft light across the marble floors. Zaria stood on the front steps as Ryan’s black car waited at the bottom. He came out behind her, dressed in gray, sunglasses in hand. Every movement he made drew eyes; even the guards seemed to stand straighter when he passed.

She climbed in beside him. “Where are we going?”

“Shopping,” he said simply.

“For…?”

“Whatever you need. Clothes. Shoes. Things you should have.”

She looked down at her simple dress. “I have things.”

He turned his head slowly toward her. “Not the kind a Moretti’s wife wears.”

The ride into the city was quiet, until she noticed him watching her reflection in the window.

“What?” she asked.

“You keep touching your ring,” he said. “Trying to take it off?”

“I’m not.”

He smirked slightly. “Good. It wouldn’t come off anyway.”

Something in his voice sent a small shiver through her. Possession and promise, mixed in one line.

The Boutique

Florence’s most exclusive boutique stood empty except for staff who bowed the moment Ryan entered. His presence filled the space, commanding without words. Zaria trailed behind, eyes wide as silk, lace, and glittering fabrics surrounded her.

The saleswoman smiled nervously. “Mrs. Moretti, what would you like to try?”

Zaria blinked. “Mrs… Moretti?” The title felt foreign, heavy on her tongue.

Ryan’s voice came from behind her, smooth but final.

“Show her everything.”

Dress after dress appeared, each more extravagant than the last. She picked the softest ones, modest colors, quiet cuts—but Ryan’s gaze occasionally lingered on something bolder. When she hesitated near a delicate black evening gown, he said, “That one.”

“It’s too much.”

His tone left no room for refusal. “It’s perfect.”

By the time they were done, the staff stood surrounded by boxes and bags. Zaria had never owned half this much in her life.

When they passed a smaller shop displaying nightwear, her eyes flicked there without meaning to. She quickly looked away—but Ryan saw.

“Inside,” he said simply.

“Ryan, no, I wasn’t—”

He opened the door for her. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The shopkeeper, clearly recognizing him, welcomed them with a nervous smile. “Something for the lady?”

Zaria shook her head quickly. “Just… something simple.”

Ryan watched her, silent. When she chose soft cotton rather than silk, he only raised a brow, then picked up one item himself—a silver-gray robe that shimmered faintly under the lights.

“This,” he said, handing it to the clerk. “Wrap it.”

Zaria wanted to protest but didn’t. His tone left no space for argument, and somewhere under the nervousness, a tiny spark of warmth flickered—like attention, not control.

Back Home

When they returned to the mansion, she carried one of the smaller bags herself. Ryan took it from her hand without a word.

“You don’t carry things,” he said.

“I can—”

He cut her off. “You don’t have to.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it, but she heard something different this time—less command, more instinct.

That night, when she unpacked the clothes, she found the silver-gray robe on top. She brushed her fingers over the soft fabric, then looked at the door.

Through it, she could hear the faint sound of Ryan’s voice on a call somewhere down the hall—low, angry, commanding.

Then the sound of a door slamming.

A few minutes later, footsteps came toward her room.

He stopped outside, then said quietly through the door:

“You don’t have to hide, Zaria. I don’t hurt what’s mine.”

Her breath caught. The steps moved away.

She stood there for a long time, robe in hand, heart pounding.

For the first time since she’d arrived, she wasn’t sure whether she was more afraid of his cruelty… or of the strange safety she felt in it.

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