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This power is different, though. Or maybe I’m the one who has changed. Because now I know who owns me, who protects me. The man beside me, with one hand squeezing my thigh. His thumb strokes slow, deliberate circles—possessive, steady as ever.

“It’s me and you, Toy. No one else matters.”

As we round the final curve in the driveway, the estate looms into view—sleek, sprawling, designed for privacy and dominance. Lights illuminate strategic portions of the façade, creating shadows that seem intentional rather than incidental.

It’s not a house; it’s a statement.

Instead of being intimidated, I feel my blood warming, a familiar heat that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with hunger. This is Enzo’s world—the foundation that shaped him into the man whose hands have mapped every inch of my body, whose voice has pulled confessions from my lips I never thought I’d make.

His fingers flex against my thigh, and I cover his hand with mine. “Ready?” he asks, watching me with that intensity that makes my heart skip.

“Lead the way,” I say, knowing he won’t allow me to fall.

Enzo’s hand remains at the small of my back as he leads me inside, the heat of his palm seeping through my dress like a brand.

A woman appears at the end of the hallway, and even from a distance, I know she’s Enzo’s mother. It’s not just the ice-blue eyes—a perfect match to his—but something in the way she holds herself, like the air around her should feel privileged to touch her skin.

“Lorenzo,” she says, her voice carrying the kind of cultured precision that can’t be bought, only inherited. Her gaze slides to me with clinical interest, as though I’m a specimen she’s not quite sure how to classify.

“Mom,” Enzo—Lorenzo—replies, the name still foreign on my mental tongue. “This is Piper.”

She approaches with measured steps, her smile razor-sharp beneath perfect lipstick, and kisses my cheeks—left, then right. The scent of her perfume is subtle but unmistakable, probably a custom-blend that probably contains notes of power and intimidation.

“These are for you,” I say, offering the flowers. “Thank you for inviting me.”

It’s strange to say since she didn’t actually invite me, but I was raised with manners that stick even when faced with a woman who I’m sure could order my disappearance with a single nod. She takes the arrangement with the kind of glance that tells me she knows the florist, the price point, and what I was trying to say with it.

“How thoughtful,” she says, passing them to a staff member who materializes from nowhere. “Come, we’ll have wine before dinner.”

We follow her into a sitting room where everything feels curated for impact rather than comfort. The chairs are beautiful but offer no forgiveness to the body. The artwork lining the walls speaks of conquest and loyalty, bloodlines and sacrifice. A decanter of red wine awaits on a side table, alongside crystal glasses that catch the light like prisms.

“So, Piper,” she begins once we’re seated, her glass balanced between long, elegant fingers. “Tell me about yourself. Lorenzo has been very reticent about you.”

I feel Enzo shift beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. “Or we could start lighter. Perhaps ask about the trip first,” he deadpans, shooting his mom an unimpressed glare.

Taking his hand, I squeeze it. “Why?” I ask him. “We might as well get to it.” My tone is all sugary and false bravado.

His mom tilts her head slightly and gives me a smile that almost looks real.

“I’m in my last year at Georgetown,” I begin. Then I throw myself into a description of what I study, and the line of work I hope to end up in.

She listens thoughtfully, but for some reason, her lips thin with each word I speak. “Ah, a kingmaker in the making,” she says, her eyes flicking to Enzo with something that might be amusement. “How fitting.”

There’s that word again—kingmaker. Something stirs in my chest, and I feel like I should have figured it out before he told me yesterday.

“And how did you meet my son?” she continues, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “Did you hope to use his connections to further your own career ambitions?”

I could lie and craft a more palatable version of our beginning. But something tells me this woman would taste the falsehood like poison.

“He stalked me,” I say simply, taking a sip of wine that burns pleasantly down my throat. “To answer your question, I didn’t even know he existed until he offered me an interview at his company. And even then, I was blindfolded for said interview.”

Enzo’s mother freezes mid-sip, her eyes widening fractionally before darting to her son. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs—a sound like crystal breaking, beautiful and dangerous.

“Of course he did,” she says, setting her glass down with deliberate care. “My son has always known exactly what he wants.”

The tension in the room shifts, recalibrates. Where there was coolness, I now sense something like respect—or at least a willingness to reserve judgment. “And you stayed,” she observes, studying me over the rim of her glass. “Despite the… unconventional beginning.”

“I did,” I confirm, squeezing Enzo’s hand again. “I know what I want too.”