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"Because of who I am to you," I guess.

His laugh is low, humorless. "Because of who you are, period."

Before I can ask what that means, he stands, moving toward his dress shirt hanging in the closet.

"I need to shower," I say, sliding from the bed. "Then I'd like to go to the garden. I've been cooped up inside too long."

Luca nods, his back to me as he buttons his shirt. "I will allow it. But take Alessio with you. No wandering alone."

I want to argue, to remind him I'm not a child, but the blood on the sheets and the fresh wounds on his hands make me pause. Whatever game is being played in this house of shadows, the stakes are clearly rising.

"Luca..." I hesitate at the bathroom door. "Last night. You seemed..."

"What?" He turns, face carefully neutral.

"I don't know. Different."

Something flickers in his eyes. "Maybe I am. Maybe you're changing me."

"Is that a good thing?"

"No," he says softly. "But I can't seem to stop it."

***

The shower is hot enough to turn my skin pink, steam billowing around me as I wash away the night. My mind replays Luca's words from this morning, trying to fit them together like puzzle pieces without edges.

The Volkovs have been asking questions... My father is inviting wolves to our door... Maybe you're changing me...

I rinse conditioner from my hair, wondering how many more secrets this house holds, how many more ghosts haunt the man I've married. Last night was the first time I've seen Luca vulnerable—not dominant, not calculating, just... human. The way he held me, like I was something precious rather than something owned.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around myself and pad back into the bedroom. It's empty, Luca's cologne the only trace of him left behind since he left this morning.

I dress quickly in jeans and a cashmere sweater Teresa left for me. It's casual by Ravelli standards, which of course means designer labels and fabrics soft enough to make me forget what cheap cotton feels like against my skin.

The bedroom is silent as I move toward the door leading to the garden. But something makes me pause, my hand on the ornate handle.

Through another door—one I've barely noticed before—I can see the edge of Luca's private study. I've glimpsed it only in passing, always closed, always off-limits.

Now, it stands ajar.

My heartbeat quickens as I approach. This is forbidden territory is Luca's inner sanctum, where he handles whatever business keeps the Ravelli empire turning, whatever secrets keep him returning with blood on his hands and darkness in his eyes.

I should walk away. Go to the garden as planned. Pretend I didn't notice this open door, this silent invitation to betray his trust.

Instead, I push it open wider and step inside.

The office is exactly what I'd expect from Luca. Sleek, minimalist, everything in its place. A massive desk dominates the center, its surface bare except for a closed laptop and a single framed photo turned away from the door. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes and architectural models of buildings I recognize from the London skyline.

I move deeper into the room, drawn to the photo on the desk. It's Luca as a teenager, standing beside a beautiful dark-haired woman with his same gray eyes.

"Elena," I whisper, staring at the photo.

The resemblance is striking. Not just in coloring, but in the proud tilt of her chin, the direct gaze that seems to follow me as I circle the desk.

Behind it stands a filing cabinet, modern looking with a biometric lock glowing red beside the top drawer. Obviously secure, obviously private.

But beside it, partially hidden by a decorative panel, is an older cabinet. Wooden, with brass handles and a keyhole that looks like it hasn't been used in years.