Chapter 7 – The Dinner

• Five days. That’s all she had left. The wedding was fast approaching.
• Alina stood in front of her mirror, staring at the reflection that looked like someone else. A dress had been laid out for her—something elegant, dark green silk that clung to her curves and shimmered in the low light of her room. But she saw nothing glamorous in it. Only chains.
• The door opened before she could leave, and Teresa stood there, her face soft but eyes hard with something unspoken.
• “Miss Rayne,” she said gently, “It’s time for dinner.”
• Alina had grown tired of hearing that phrase. It’s time for dinner. As though she were a guest. But she wasn’t a guest here. She was a prisoner.
• “I’m not hungry,” Alina muttered, not bothering to look at Teresa.
• “I’m afraid it’s not optional,” Teresa replied. “He’s waiting.”
• She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to face him. But she had no choice. And so, with a breath that shook, she followed Teresa through the winding halls of the estate. The stone floors felt cold beneath her feet, the grand chandeliers overhead casting long, haunting shadows.
• The grand dining room awaited her—an imposing table of dark mahogany, set meticulously with silver, crystal, and fine china. A roaring fire in the hearth crackled in the distance, but it did nothing to warm the chill in Alina’s bones.
• Luciano stood at the far end of the table. His back was straight, hands clasped together, his gaze already fixed on her as she entered.
• Alina’s heart skipped, but she quickly forced the feeling down.
• “Sit,” Luciano commanded, his voice low but clear.
• She didn’t reply. Just moved toward the chair opposite him and took a seat, her back stiff, her chin raised.
• For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of the fire crackling and the occasional clink of silverware breaking the silence.
• Alina couldn’t stand it anymore. She couldn’t sit there quietly, not when she felt like she was suffocating in his presence. Not when she knew he was studying her, dissecting her every movement, every breath.
• “You enjoy this, don’t you?” she snapped suddenly, her voice sharp.
• Luciano didn’t flinch. “Enjoy what?”
• “Watching me squirm. Watching me suffer.”
• His eyes darkened, but the faintest edge of amusement curled at his lips. “You think I take pleasure in your suffering?”
• Alina’s fingers dug into the sides of her chair. “Then what do you take pleasure in? Selling me off like some commodity, locking me in this house, forcing me into a marriage with you—”
• “Enough,” Luciano interrupted, his tone unyielding. “You’re here because of your father’s debt. You can hate me all you want, but that will never change.”
• “Then why the games?” Alina pressed. “Why make me sit here in this… palace? Why act like everything is fine, like this is just some…some arrangement?”
• He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. “Because I don’t want you to see how much power I truly have over you. Yet.”
• Her breath caught in her throat. “What do you mean?”
• Luciano’s eyes gleamed in the flickering firelight. “You see, cara mia, I’ve been studying you. Your mind, your heart, your passions. It’s all in your art.”
• Alina’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her mouth went dry. “What?”
• “The sketchbooks you left behind,” Luciano continued, his voice deceptively calm. “The paintings you tucked away. They’ve been carefully preserved.”
• “No,” Alina whispered, horrified. “You wouldn’t…”
• “I would. I have,” Luciano said coolly. “I’ve known about your art long before you ever stepped foot in this house.”
• Her pulse raced, a cold feeling settling deep in her stomach. “How?”
• “You think I don’t know the things people leave behind? The things they try to hide?” His gaze was dark now, piercing. “I know everything about you, Alina. Your paintings, your sketches…they’re more than just drawings to me. They’re a window into your soul.”
• She recoiled slightly, her breath quickening. He was right. She had never shown anyone those works—not even her professors in school. Those sketches weren’t just pictures of her surroundings—they were parts of herself, things she had never been able to say aloud.
• Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.
• “You think,” he continued, his voice taking on a cold edge, “that I enjoy your suffering? Perhaps, in a way, it excites me. But not for the reasons you think. No, I enjoy control, Alina. Understanding you better than anyone else. Using that knowledge to ensure you’ll learn what I expect from you.”
• A heavy silence settled between them. The weight of his words pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. And the way he called her name. The way he stressed the Aleena, sent chills down her spine.
• “You’ve been mine for longer than you think,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, eyes never leaving hers.
• Alina’s heart pounded. “What do you mean by that?”
• He sat back, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of his wine glass. “Everything you’ve ever done has been a part of this. Your art, your father’s desperation—it’s all led to this point. To you sitting here, at my table.”
• “No!” She shook her head, disbelief clouding her thoughts. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You can’t just…manipulate everything. You don’t get to play with people’s lives like this.”
• Luciano’s expression didn’t change, but there was something darker in his eyes now, something dangerous. “I’m not playing, Alina. I’ve never been playing. You’ll understand soon enough.”
• Her chest tightened, her mind racing to comprehend his words. What did he mean by that? What else had he planned for her?
• “Why are you doing this?” she asked, voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “Why me? Why this…this game?”
• Luciano leaned in slightly, his gaze never faltering. “Because you’re mine. And I take what’s mine very seriously.”
• She fought to keep her voice steady, but it trembled, a desperate plea lacing her words. “I will never be yours.”
• His lips curled into a small, dangerous smile. “We’ll see about that.”