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His words cling to my skin like smoke. Heavy, lingering. Impossible to ignore.

“And if I say no, that I’m not okay... are you going to do something about it, bambina?”

I don’t know what burns more: the heat in his voice or the fact that I’m still thinking about what I would’ve said if I could’ve found my voice at all.

Ares Russo. King of Headfucks.

I watch as he strides away, his boots resonating with a hollow echo down the dimly lit hall.

His shoulders are drawn tight with tension, each step radiating a controlled fury that seems to vibrate in the air around him.

I remain rooted to the spot, watching him retreat, his silhouette shrinking with every step.

My heart flutters wildly, pounding in my chest with a furious intensity.

I feel flushed and unsteady, as though my skin doesn’t quite fit right. Like it’s stretched too tight over my frame. I can still feel the heat lingering where his fingers had gripped my arm, a sensation like a brand seared into my flesh.

But it’s not just the physical remnants that haunt me.

There was something in his eyes when he looked at me.

..something dark, frantic, and wounded. And for a second, just a second, I think he wanted me to do something.

Like if I had reached for him, he might have let me see whatever he’s been holding back.

But then he turned away.

And just like that, he shut the door again.

It’s hours later, but I still can’t get out of my own head.

The villa is once again quiet, so quiet I can hear my own thoughts screaming in my head.

Aimlessly, I wander the halls like a ghost, barefoot, drowning in this ridiculous hoodie that still smells like him, trying not to obsess over the way he looked at me.

But the silence presses in.

There’s nothing to do. No job. No friends. No routine.

Back home in London, I had a life. Coffee runs, group chats, and a job that didn’t pay much but gave me purpose. Here, there’s just marble and an abundance of sunlight and people who speak in half-truths.

I still feel like a guest in someone else’s dream.

Trapped in a gilded cage.

I find Bianca in the sunroom, curled up with a fashion magazine and a glass of sparkling water, like she belongs in a Dolce you wanted this. A job. Independence. A chance to feel useful once more.

So why does it feel like I’m about to step into something whose shape remains elusive, shrouded in mystery.

The front doors glide open without a single sound, as if the place has been silently anticipating my arrival. I take a deep, steadying breath.

And step inside.

The moment I walk inside I’m greeted with the smell of booze, sweat and some kind of perfumed air freshener. Reminds me of the that rich scent you’re shrouded in when you walk into expensive hotels.