Chapter 4 The Wolf In A Suit

• Lidia’s POV
• I stood slowly.
• Too slowly.
• My body argued with the movement, a silent scream pulsing through every nerve, but I forced myself upright. Arias Moretti was the kind of man you didn’t meet slouched in a chair. He didn’t invite comfort. He commanded presence.
• And I couldn’t afford to look weak. Not here. Not now.
• His gaze followed every inch of me as I rose, but not like most men. There was nothing lewd, nothing crude in his inspection. No, Arias looked at me like a collector studies a rare piece—calculating, quiet, interested only in what lies beneath the frame. Like he could already see the cracks I fought to hide.
• "You're not what I expected," he said simply.
• "And what did you expect?" I asked, my voice cool. Controlled.
• He took a step closer, hands folded behind his back. He wore black like a weapon—tailored, clean, absolute. Everything about him whispered power in a voice that didn’t need to raise its volume.
• “I thought you’d be… older. Or at least someone who doesn’t look like she still has one foot in art school and the other in a funeral,” he replied, studying my face. “But then again, your paintings are more honest than most people I’ve met.”
• Something twisted in my gut.
• He’d studied my work. Really studied it.
• “People see what they want,” I said, forcing the weight from my tone. “It’s paint on canvas. Nothing more.”
• He tilted his head, like a predator hearing something in the underbrush. “That’s a lie.”
• Matias cleared his throat nearby, offering me a subtle look—part warning, part sympathy. But he knew better than to interrupt the storm that was now circling around us.
• “Sit,” Arias said.
• It wasn’t a suggestion.
• I obeyed, grateful to sink back down, though my body protested even the angle of my spine. I shifted as naturally as I could, hiding the way my shoulder ached, the way my ribs burned from the simple act of breathing.
• Arias sat across from me, legs crossed, elbows on the armrest like a king in council. His fingers were long, elegant, the kind of hands that could strangle or seduce without changing pace.
• “I’m redoing my villa in Sicily. Every piece in that house will be curated or commissioned by someone I trust. That’s where you come in.”
• I nodded, reaching for my sketchbook and flipping it open, hoping the motion distracted from the tremor in my hands. “What kind of pieces do you need?”
• “Ten,” he said. “Large format. Five for the main living spaces, five for private rooms. I’ll provide inspiration—moodboards, photos of the rooms, textures, color schemes.”
• His voice was smooth, but beneath it—steel. Like he didn’t ask for things. He expected them to be done.
• I looked up at him, straight into those glacial eyes.
• “And what about themes?” I asked. “You want portraits? Abstracts? Landscapes?”
• He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
• “I want you,” he said. “Your style. Your madness. Your war.”
• My throat dried.
• “You don’t even know me,” I whispered.
• “I know your soul,” he said simply, tapping the sketchbook with one finger. “It bleeds through every piece you’ve ever made.”
• No one had ever said that to me before.
• Not even close.
• And God help me, it scared me more than Carlos ever had.
• “Why now?” I asked. “Why not stay with the anonymity? Why meet me?”
• His lips quirked, the faintest edge of a smile ghosting over them. “Because some things demand presence. And because people like you…” He paused, letting his gaze burn into mine. “You don’t just paint. You purge.”
• Matias, still standing nearby, gave an almost invisible nod. As if to say, he’s not wrong.
• Arias stood then, walking slowly toward the tall windows that overlooked the skyline. He didn’t speak for a moment, and the silence was no longer cold. It was charged.
• “Everything about you says secrets, Phoenixia,” he murmured, still facing away. “You hide them under clothes, behind brush strokes, in every silent answer you give. But secrets don’t stay buried forever. Especially when they’re bleeding.”
• I froze. My heart hammered in my chest so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
• “Is that a threat?” I asked.
• He turned to face me. Calm. Poised. Dangerous.
• “No. It’s a promise.”
• I didn’t know if I wanted to run… or paint him.
• He was too much. And yet, somehow, not enough. Like staring at a locked door you’ve been dying to open, knowing the fire on the other side might finally be the one that consumes you whole.
• “I expect the first concepts in three days,” he added, already moving toward the exit. “You’ll be given a room here if needed. Or privacy at home—whichever cage suits you best.”
• A part of me flinched at that word. Cage.
• Did he know?
• Could he see it, printed on my spine like a barcode?
• “Matias will arrange the details,” he finished. “Don’t disappoint me, Phoenix.”
• And then he was gone. Just like that.
• Leaving behind the echo of something I couldn’t name, and a fire in my chest that didn’t belong to pain for once.
• Matias sat beside me, watching me carefully.
• “So,” he said, offering a crooked smile. “On a scale of one to ten, how much are you internally combusting right now?”
• I blinked. Exhaled.
• “Eleven,” I muttered.
• He grinned. “Thought so. Welcome to hell, sweetheart. Hope you brought matches.”