His mouth left mine, but his hands stayed on my waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above my hips like he was testing the weight of me. The kiss had left me breathless, my lips swollen, and I could feel the heat of his body through the silk of my robe. The collar sat warm against my throat, the diamond catching the lamplight, and I was acutely aware of how it felt—not like a shackle, but like a hand resting there, possessive and patient.

"You're trembling," he said, and his voice was low, almost amused. "Are you cold?"

I shook my head, and the motion made the collar shift against my skin. "No."

"Good." He stepped back, and the loss of his warmth was sudden, almost cruel. His eyes traveled down my body, slow and deliberate, and I felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing. "Then let's get you out of this."

His fingers found the sash of my robe, and he pulled it loose with the same unhurried care a man might use to unwrap a gift he'd been saving. The silk parted, and I felt the cool air of the room against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. He didn't rush. He pushed the robe off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of champagne-colored fabric, and I stood there in nothing but the lace bra and panties Mama Rosa had dressed me in, the gold collar at my throat the only other thing I wore.

Luca made a sound low in his throat, something between appreciation and hunger. His hands came up, palms flat against my stomach, and I felt the heat of them through the thin lace. "Beautiful," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Every inch of you."

I stood still, letting him look. Three weeks in the brothel had taught me how to be looked at. How to hold my body like an offering, how to keep my eyes soft and my breath even while my mind raced. But this was different. Tommy had looked at me like meat. The soldiers had looked at me like a hole to fill. Luca looked at me like I was a painting he was about to buy—and he wanted to see the brushstrokes up close.

His hands moved, tracing the curve of my ribs through the lace. "I want to know you like this," he said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. "Every curve. Every secret."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I just watched him as he lowered his head, his lips finding the hollow of my throat just above the collar. He kissed me there, soft and warm, and I felt a shiver run through me that I couldn't quite control. His mouth moved lower, trailing down my sternum, and his hands came around to unclasp my bra with practiced ease. The lace fell away, and my breasts were bare to the cool air, my nipples tightening.

He made another sound, deeper this time, and his hands came up to cup me, thumbs brushing over my nipples in slow circles. "God," he breathed. "You're perfect."

I arched into his touch before I could stop myself, and he smiled against my skin. "There she is," he murmured. "I knew she was in there."

His mouth found my nipple, and I gasped, my fingers threading into his salt-and-pepper hair. He suckled gently at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak until I was gripping his hair, my hips tilting toward him of their own accord. He gave the other breast the same attention, and by the time he pulled away, I was flushed and breathless, my knees weak.

"Lie down," he said, and his voice was different now—lower, rougher. "On the chaise."

I moved on autopilot, my body obeying before my mind caught up. The chaise was upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, and the fabric was cool against my bare back. Luca followed me, kneeling beside the chaise, and his hands found the waistband of my panties. He didn't pull them off. Instead, he traced the edge of the lace with his fingertips, watching my face as he did it.

"Tell me what you want," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a command, soft and patient, like he had all night.

I swallowed. Three weeks in the brothel, and no one had ever asked me that. Tommy had just taken. The soldiers had just used. Even Mama Rosa, in her way, had told me what I needed to do to survive, never what I wanted. The question felt foreign, dangerous, like a door I wasn't sure I should open.

"I want—" I started, and my voice cracked. I tried again. "I want you to touch me."

His smile was slow and satisfied. "I intend to." He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them down, inch by inch, revealing the damp curls beneath. "But I want to hear you say it."

The air was cool against my bare cunt, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the brothel. This was different. This was intimate. "I want you to touch me," I said again, and my voice was steadier this time. "Please."

"Good girl." He lowered his head, and his first kiss landed on the inside of my thigh, just above my knee. Then another, higher. Another, higher still, until his lips were brushing the crease where my thigh met my body, and I could feel his breath, warm and damp, against my cunt. He looked up at me, his hazel eyes dark, and then he licked me, a long, slow stroke from my entrance to my clit, and I arched off the chaise with a gasp.

He didn't rush. He took his time, learning me with his mouth and fingers, finding the places that made me moan and the places that made me squirm. He circled my clit with his tongue until I was trembling, then pulled back, letting the ache build. He pushed two fingers inside me, slow and deep, curling them until he found the spot that made my vision blur, and I cried out, my hips bucking against his hand.

"That's it," he murmured against my thigh. "Let me hear you."

I was already slick, my cunt clenching around his fingers, and I could feel the orgasm building low in my belly, hot and insistent. He worked me toward it with patient, deliberate strokes, and when he finally let me fall, I came with a broken cry, my body convulsing around his hand, my nails digging into the velvet of the chaise.

He waited until I stopped shaking, then pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips. He tasted me, his eyes never leaving mine, and something in my chest tightened. No one had ever looked at me like that. Like I was something precious.

"Beautiful," he said again, and I felt the word like a caress.

I thought he might climb onto the chaise with me, might push inside me and take his pleasure. I was ready for it, aching for it, my body still thrumming from the orgasm. But instead, he pulled back, reaching for something I hadn't noticed before—an easel, set by the window, with a blank canvas waiting on it. A box of oil paints sat open on a small table beside it, brushes bristling in a jar of turpentine.

"Stay just like that," he said, and his voice had shifted again, the hunger replaced by something else. Something focused.

I blinked at him, my mind slow and cloudy. "What?"

"I want to paint you." He said it simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Like this. Sweat on your skin, that flush on your cheeks. The way you look right now, when you're not performing for anyone."

I should have felt exposed. I was lying naked on his chaise, my thighs still slick, my skin damp with sweat. But his eyes weren't hungry anymore. They were appreciative, yes, but also something else—something almost tender. And the way he said when you're not performing for anyone made me feel like he could see through me, like he knew exactly what I was doing every time I smiled at a client or laughed at a joke I didn't find funny.

"Okay," I said, and my voice came out softer than I intended.

He smiled, and it was different from the other smiles he'd given me. It was real, unguarded. "You'll be my muse," he said, and he turned to the easel, picking up a brush. "My finest acquisition yet."

I lay there, watching him mix colors on the palette, his gaze flicking between my body and the canvas. The brush moved in strokes that mirrored his touch, slow and deliberate, and I felt a strange intimacy in being watched like this. Not as a body to be used, but as something to be captured, preserved. Like I mattered.

He painted for hours. The candlelight shifted, the shadows deepening in the corners of the room, and I stayed still, letting him look at me. My muscles began to ache from holding the same pose, but I didn't move. I didn't want to break the spell.

He talked while he painted, low and unhurried, telling me about his gallery in Milan, about the artists he represented, about the way light fell on a canvas when you got it just right. He asked me questions too—where I was from, what I dreamed about—and I gave him the answers I'd rehearsed, the ones Mama Rosa had drilled into me. But every time I lied, something flickered in his eyes, like he could tell.

"You're not from Naples," he said at one point, not looking up from the canvas.

I froze. "What makes you say that?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "The way you hold yourself. The way you listen before you speak. You're measuring every word, like you're afraid of giving something away." He looked at me then, his hazel eyes sharp. "I've spent my life learning to read people, tesoro. You're a fascinating puzzle."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing. But something in my chest shifted, a crack in the armor I'd been building since the Don transformed me. He saw me. Not the role I was playing, but the person underneath. And I wasn't sure if that was a gift or a threat.

Finally, he set down his brush and turned the easel toward me. "For my collection," he said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent.

I sat up slowly, my body stiff from hours of stillness, and I looked at the canvas. And I forgot how to breathe.

It was me. But it wasn't the me I saw in the mirror every day, the one who looked back at me with wary eyes and a practiced smile. It was the me he saw—the one with the flush on her cheeks and the collar at her throat, the one who looked beautiful and owned and utterly, completely his. He had captured something I didn't even know I had: a softness, a vulnerability, a hope I'd been trying to bury.

I felt tears prick at my eyes, and I blinked them back fiercely. "It's beautiful," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word.

"You're beautiful," he corrected, and he came to sit beside me on the chaise, his hand finding mine. "And now you're mine. Do you understand what that means?"

I looked at him, at the sharp jawline and the soft hands, at the hunger in his eyes that wasn't cruel but somehow more dangerous for being gentle. "What does it mean?"

He brought my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "It means no one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever see you like this. You belong to me now, Isabella." His eyes held mine, dark and serious. "And I take care of what belongs to me."

The collar was warm against my throat, and I felt the weight of his words settle over me like a blanket. It should have felt like a cage. It should have felt like a trap. But instead, all I felt was relief—a terrible, dangerous relief, like finally putting down a weight I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

"Okay," I whispered, and I meant it.

He smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He leaned in, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he pressed his lips to my forehead, tender and soft, and something in my chest cracked open.

"I'm going to take you away from this place," he said, his voice a low murmur against my skin. "Out of this brothel, out of this city. I'm going to show you what it means to be someone's treasure."

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me. The hope that had been blooming in my chest since the moment he walked into the parlour with his leather notebook and his gentle eyes swelled, pushing against my ribs. I knew I should be careful. I knew this was too good to be true. But for the first time in three weeks, I let myself believe it.

He pulled back, and his hand came up to touch the collar at my throat, his thumb tracing the diamond. "This is just the beginning," he said. "There's a world out there, Isabella. A world of beauty and art and luxury. And I want to show it all to you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His smile widened, and he reached for the easel, turning the canvas back toward him. "I'll have this framed," he said, his voice light, almost casual. "Hung in my gallery. So everyone who sees it will know that I own something beautiful."

The words should have chilled me. Own. He was talking about owning me, the way he owned the paintings on his walls. But instead, I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest. Because being owned by Luca Bianchi meant being wanted. Meant being valued. Meant being safe.

And after three weeks of being used and discarded, of smiling through pain and swallowing my own screams, safe was the most beautiful word I'd ever heard.

"Thank you," I said, and I wasn't sure if I was thanking him for the painting or for the promise or for something else entirely.

He looked at me, and his eyes softened. "You don't have to thank me, tesoro. You're mine now. And I take care of what's mine."

He stood, offering me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet, his eyes traveling down my body once more. I was still naked, still flushed, still trembling from the hours of being seen. But I didn't feel exposed anymore. I felt like a masterpiece in progress.

"Come," he said, leading me toward the bed. "Let me show you what it means to be treasured."

I followed him, the collar warm against my throat, the hope blooming in my chest. And for the first time in three weeks, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I had found my way out.

The bed swallowed me when I lay back, the deep red silk cool against my overheated skin. Luca stood at the foot of it, watching me with that collector's gaze, and I felt the weight of his attention settle over me like a second layer of clothing. He didn't climb on top of me. He didn't reach for me. He just looked, his hazel eyes tracing the lines of my body with the same focus he'd given the canvas.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, and his voice was soft, almost distant.

I shook my head, the collar shifting against my throat.

"I see a woman who's been taught to give herself away," he said. "Who's learned to open her legs and close her heart at the same time. Who's been touched by a hundred hands and never really felt any of them."

The words landed like stones in my chest, heavy and unexpected. I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.

"But I also see someone who's still fighting," he continued, stepping closer to the bed. "Someone who hasn't given up, even when she had every reason to. And that, tesoro, is the most beautiful thing about you."

He reached down and took my hand, pulling me up to sit. His fingers found the clasp of the collar at my throat, and for a moment I thought he was going to take it off. Instead, he turned it slightly, adjusting the diamond so it caught the lamplight, and then he leaned in and kissed me, slow and deep.

The kiss was different from the others. It wasn't hungry or demanding. It was patient, exploratory, like he was memorizing the shape of my lips. His hand came up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone, and I felt something loosen in my chest, a knot I hadn't known I was holding.

"I'm going to take you to Milan," he murmured against my mouth. "I'm going to show you my gallery, my home. I'm going to introduce you to a world you've never imagined."

I pulled back, my mind spinning. "When?"

"Soon." His hand traced down my arm, his fingers intertwining with mine. "There are arrangements to be made. The Don and I have... business to conclude. But it will be days, not weeks."

Days, not weeks. The words hung in the air between us, and I felt something shift in my chest—not the hope I'd been nursing, but something sharper, more urgent. I thought of the parlour downstairs, of Mama Rosa's watchful eyes and the parade of men who would climb the stairs if Luca walked out that door without me. "And until then?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light. "Do I wait in the parlour?"

His thumb traced the inside of my wrist, finding my pulse. "You wait for me," he said, and the weight in his voice made my breath catch. "I've already spoken to Mama Rosa. You're not to be touched by anyone else. You're not to be called down to the parlour. You're mine, Isabella, and I don't share what's mine."

The relief that flooded through me was so intense it made my head swim. I'd been bracing for the alternative—for the parade of faceless men, for the hours of smiling and spreading my legs for strangers while I counted the minutes until Luca came back. But he'd already taken care of it. He'd already protected me.

"Thank you," I said, and the words felt inadequate, too small for what I was feeling.

He smiled, and there was something almost tender in it. "You keep thanking me, tesoro. I'm going to start thinking you don't believe I mean it."

I laughed, a real laugh, and the sound surprised me. Three weeks in the brothel, and I'd forgotten what my real laugh sounded like. The one I'd used as Carter, before the Don had reshaped me into this soft, curving body with its honey-blond hair and whiskey-brown eyes. The laugh that had come from somewhere deep in my gut, unguarded and free.

Luca's eyes lit up at the sound. "There it is," he murmured. "I've been waiting to hear that."

I ducked my head, suddenly shy, and the collar shifted against my throat. It was warm from my body heat now, familiar in a way that should have frightened me. "You're very good at this," I said. "Making a woman feel special."

"I'm not making you feel anything," he said, and his voice was serious now. "I'm just telling you the truth. You are special, Isabella. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I've spent my life surrounded by beautiful things."

The words settled into me, warm and dangerous. I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. But I'd learned in three weeks that pretty words were cheap, that men would say anything to get what they wanted. The difference was that Luca had already gotten what he wanted—he'd bought me, body and soul, paid the Don for exclusive rights to my cunt and my smile. He didn't need to sweet-talk me anymore. Which meant, maybe, that he meant it.

He must have seen the doubt flicker across my face, because he reached up and touched the collar at my throat, his fingers tracing the delicate gold band. "You don't trust me yet," he said. "That's okay. Trust takes time. But I'm patient, Isabella. I can wait."

"What if I never trust you?" I asked, and the question came out before I could stop it.

His hand stilled on the collar, and he looked at me with those hazel eyes, sharp and knowing. "Then I'll earn it," he said simply. "One day at a time."

Something in my chest cracked open, just a little. I'd been so focused on surviving, on playing the role, on keeping my eyes soft and my mouth smiling while my mind calculated exits. I hadn't let myself want anything in weeks. But sitting here, naked and collared and utterly his, I wanted. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be his treasure. I wanted to get on that plane to Milan and never look back.

"Okay," I whispered, and this time the word felt different. Less like surrender, more like a choice.

He kissed me again, soft and slow, and I melted into him. His hands came up to cup my face, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones, and I felt the kiss deepen, his tongue sliding against mine. I tasted myself on his lips, faint and musky, and the intimacy of it made my cunt clench. He'd tasted me. He'd marked me with his mouth. And now I was tasting myself on him, a secret shared between us.

He pulled back, his forehead resting against mine. "I should let you rest," he said, but his voice was rough, reluctant. "You've had a long night."

"I'm not tired," I said, and it was true. My body was humming, alive in a way it hadn't been in weeks. The orgasm he'd given me had loosened something, and the painting had opened something else. I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to stay in this room, in this moment, with him.

His eyes darkened. "Is that right?"

I nodded, and I felt a boldness I didn't recognize rising in my chest. "I want to know you too," I said. "You've spent all night learning me. I want to learn you."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or interest. "And what do you want to know?"

I reach out, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt. "Everything," I said, and I started to undo them, one by one.

He let me. He stood still, his eyes on my face, as I pushed the fabric aside and revealed the pale skin of his chest. He was lean, not muscular like the soldiers who'd used me, but elegant, the body of a man who spent his life in galleries and auction houses. A thin line of dark hair ran from his sternum down to his belly, and I followed it with my fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin.

"You're beautiful too," I said, and I meant it.

He laughed, low and pleased. "I've been called many things, tesoro, but never beautiful."

"Then you've been with the wrong people." I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and I ran my hands over his chest, learning the landscape of him. The dip of his collarbones. The slight give of skin over muscle. The way his breath hitched when my fingers found his nipples.

His skin was warm under my palms, and I could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his ribs. I traced the line of hair that ran from his sternum down to his belly, following it with my fingertips, and he inhaled sharply when I reached the waistband of his trousers. His hands came up to cup my face, tilting my head back so he could look at me, and there was something raw in his eyes that I hadn't seen before—not hunger, not calculation, but something closer to wonder.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped clean of its usual polish.

I wanted to say something clever, something that would keep the moment light. But the truth was that I could feel it too—the charge between us, the way my skin seemed to remember every place he'd touched. "Show me," I said instead, and the words came out steady, sure.

His hands dropped to my waist, and he guided me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. The silk sheets were cool against my thighs as he pressed me down onto the mattress, his body following mine, his weight settling over me. I could feel him through his trousers, hard and insistent, and the knowledge of it made my cunt clench with anticipation. He didn't push inside me, though. He just held himself above me, his forearms braced on either side of my head, and looked down at me with those hazel eyes.

"I've been thinking about this," he said, "since the first night I saw you. The way you moved through the parlour, the way you smiled at those men like you were performing for them. I knew you were different."

"Different how?"

"Different like a painting that's been hidden in a private collection," he said, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw. "Beautiful, but no one's ever really seen it. Not the way it deserves to be seen."

I should have felt like an object—another beautiful thing for him to acquire. But the way he said it, like I was something rare and precious, made my chest ache with a feeling I didn't want to name. "And you think you can see me?"

"I already do." He lowered his head, his lips brushing against my ear. "I see the way you hold yourself when you think no one's watching. The way your eyes go distant when you're pretending to enjoy something. The way you flinch when a man touches you without asking first."

Every word landed like a stone in my chest, heavy and undeniable. He saw too much. He saw everything. And I wasn't sure if that was the most terrifying thing or the most beautiful thing I'd ever experienced.

"I don't flinch," I said, but my voice came out weak.

He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. "You do. Every time. Like you're bracing for something." His hand came up to touch the collar at my throat, his fingers tracing the gold band. "You don't have to brace with me."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. But three weeks of being passed around like a bottle of wine had taught me that men said whatever they needed to say to get what they wanted. The difference was that Luca had already gotten what he wanted—he'd bought me, paid the Don for exclusive rights to my body. He didn't need to sweet-talk me anymore.

Which meant, maybe, that he meant it.

I reached up and threaded my fingers through his hair, pulling him down to me. The kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. His tongue slid against mine, and I felt the heat of him pressing against my thigh, the evidence of his want. I arched into him, my hips tilting up, and he groaned against my mouth.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice was ragged, barely controlled.

I thought about the men who'd come before him. Tommy, who'd taken without asking. The soldiers, who'd used me like a thing. None of them had ever asked what I wanted. None of them had ever cared. But Luca was asking, and the question felt like a door opening in a room I'd thought was sealed shut.

"I want to feel you," I said, and my voice was barely a whisper. "Inside me."

His eyes darkened, and I saw the hunger flicker there, barely restrained. "You're sure?"

I nodded, and the motion made the collar shift against my throat. "I'm sure."

He reached down and undid his trousers, pushing them down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, and I felt my mouth go dry at the sight of it. He was bigger than Tommy, bigger than the soldiers, and for a moment I felt a flicker of fear. But then he leaned over me, his lips brushing against my ear, and he whispered, "I'll go slow. I promise."

I believed him.

He positioned himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against my slick folds, and I felt my breath catch. He waited, his eyes locked on mine, and I realized he was waiting for my permission. I nodded, and he pushed inside me, slow and steady, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made my eyes roll back in my head. I felt every inch of him inside me, the heat of him filling me completely, and I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, and then he began to move—slow, deep strokes that made me gasp.

"God," I breathed, and the word came out broken.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice rough against my ear. "Take all of me."

He moved with a rhythm that was almost lazy, each thrust deliberate and deep, like he was savoring every inch of me. His hands found my hips, gripping them as he drove into me, and I felt the pleasure building low in my belly, hot and insistent. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the sensation.

"You feel incredible," he said, his voice strained. "So tight. So wet."

I was beyond words. All I could do was cling to him, my body arching into each thrust, my mouth open in a silent cry. He reached down and found my clit, his thumb pressing against it in slow circles, and I felt the orgasm building, cresting, crashing over me like a wave.

I came with a broken cry, my cunt clenching around him, and he followed moments later, his body shuddering as he spilled inside me. He stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against mine, and for a long moment neither of us spoke. The only sound in the room was our ragged breathing, the thrum of our heartbeats.

Finally, he pulled out, slow and gentle, and I felt the loss of him like an ache. He lay down beside me, pulling me into his arms, and I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. The collar was warm against my throat, the diamond catching the lamplight, and I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his lips brushing against my hair. "About taking you away from here. It won't be long."

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me. "What about the Don?"

"I'll handle the Don." His hand traced lazy patterns on my back. "He and I have an understanding. You're mine now, and he knows better than to interfere."

The words should have scared me. The Don was a man who signed death warrants with the same hand that poured his whiskey. But Luca said it so casually, so confidently, that I found myself believing him. "And Mama Rosa?"

"Already taken care of. She knows you're not to be touched."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. For the first time in three weeks, I felt something that wasn't fear or desperation. It was hope, fragile and tentative, but real.

"Thank you," I said, and the words felt inadequate.

He tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine. "You don't have to thank me, tesoro. You're mine now, and I take care of what's mine."

He kissed me, soft and slow, and I melted into him. The collar was warm against my throat, the diamond catching the lamplight, and I felt the weight of his words settle over me. I was his. And for the first time, that didn't feel like a cage.

It felt like a home.

I must have drifted, because the next thing I knew his hand was moving against my shoulder, a slow, deliberate stroke that pulled me back to the surface. I blinked, and the lamplight swam back into focus. Luca was propped against the headboard, one arm around me, and in his other hand he held his phone, the screen a soft glow in the dim room.

"Sleepy?" he asked, and there was warmth in his voice, a kind of fondness that made my chest do something strange.

"A little." I shifted against him, the silk of the sheets whispering under my thighs. "What time is it?"

"Late. Or early. Depends on how you look at it." He tilted the phone toward me, the screen bright enough to make me squint. "I want to show you something."

I pushed myself up on one elbow, the collar shifting against my throat—that familiar weight, already beginning to feel like part of me. "What is it?"

"My gallery." He said it like it was an offering, like he was handing me a key. "In Milan. I thought you might want to see where you're going."

The words landed somewhere deep, a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. Where you're going. Not if. When. He said it so casually, so certain, that I almost believed him.

He swiped the screen, and the first photograph filled the frame.

It was a cavernous space, all white walls and polished concrete floors, light pouring in from skylights high above. The kind of place that made you feel small in the best way, like you were standing inside something sacred. A few pieces hung on the walls—bold abstracts, a sculpture on a pedestal—but mostly it was empty, waiting.

"That's the main hall," he said, his thumb tracing the edge of the screen. "I bought the building five years ago. It was a textile factory, abandoned for a decade. Took two years to renovate."

"It's beautiful."

"It's a shell." He swiped to the next photo, a smaller room with darker walls, brass sconces throwing warm pools of light. "This is the private viewing room. Where I bring clients who want something special. Something they can't find anywhere else."

I watched his face as he talked, the way his eyes softened when he looked at the photographs. This was his world, the thing he'd built with his soft hands and his careful words. And he was showing it to me like I was already part of it.

"Do you miss it?" I asked. "Being there?"

"I miss the light." He swiped again, another room, this one lined with shelves, canvases stacked against the walls. "There's a particular quality to the light in Milan in the late afternoon. Golden, almost honey-colored. It makes everything look like a Caravaggio."

"You sound like you love it."

"I do." He turned to look at me, his hazel eyes catching the lamplight. "But it's just a building. A beautiful one, yes, but empty without the right pieces."

I knew what he was saying. I could feel it in the weight of his gaze, the way his hand had stilled on my shoulder. I was the piece he wanted to hang on his wall.

And God help me, part of me wanted to be.

"Show me more," I said, and his smile was slow, pleased.

He swiped through the photographs, narrating each one in that cultured voice of his. The restoration studio where he worked on damaged canvases, the archive room with its climate-controlled cases, the office where he conducted business, all dark wood and leather and the kind of quiet luxury that whispered money. I leaned into his shoulder, my cheek against the warm skin of his chest, and let him take me there.

It was a strange intimacy, different from the sex. That had been raw, physical, a language of bodies. This was something else—a slow unfolding, a way of letting me see the shape of his life. Every photograph was a confession, a piece of himself he was handing me without asking for anything in return.

Except my attention. Except my trust.

"This is where I work," he said, stopping on a photo of a large desk, papers scattered across it, a half-empty coffee cup in the corner. "Messy, I know. But it's where the deals happen."

"What kind of deals?"

"The kind that keep the lights on." He swiped past it quickly, too quickly, and I filed the moment away. There was something he wasn't saying, some edge to his business that he didn't want me to see yet. I let it go. I had my own secrets to keep.

He stopped on a photograph of a courtyard, cobblestones and climbing ivy, a wrought-iron table with two chairs. "This is where I take my coffee in the morning. When I'm actually there, which is less often than I'd like."

"It's lovely."

"It's quiet." He set the phone down on the bed, his hand finding mine. "I spend so much of my life surrounded by noise. Clients, dealers, the constant press of people wanting something from me. The courtyard is where I go to remember why I started this in the first place."

"Why did you start it?"

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "Because I wanted to own beautiful things. To preserve them. Protect them." He looked at me, and there was something raw in his eyes, something he usually kept hidden. "I think that's why I bought you."

The word bought should have stung. It should have reminded me of what I was, a transaction, a piece of property. But the way he said it, like I was a masterpiece he'd rescued from a fire, made the sting bleed into something else.

"I'm not a painting," I said, and my voice came out quieter than I meant it to.

"No." He lifted my chin, his eyes searching mine. "You're better. You're alive. You move and breathe and feel. And I get to watch you do all of it."

I should have pulled away. I should have reminded myself that this was a cage, no matter how gilded. But his hand was warm on my jaw, and the collar at my throat seemed to pulse with his words, and I couldn't find the strength to resist.

"What happens when you get bored of me?" I asked, and the question came out before I could stop it. "When I'm not new anymore?"

His expression shifted, something dark flickering behind his eyes. "Is that what you think? That you're just a novelty?"

"You've done this before." I pulled back, wrapping my arms around myself. The silk of the sheet was cool against my skin. "Mama Rosa told me. The other girls. Maria. Claudia."

He didn't deny it. He just watched me, his face unreadable, and for a long moment the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the lamp.

"Yes," he said finally. "I've done this before."

The admission hit me like a slap. I'd known it was true, but hearing him say it made it real, made me feel like just another in a long line of beautiful things he'd collected and discarded.

"But it's not the same with you," he continued, and his voice had changed, lower, more intense. "Those other girls, they were—" He stopped, searching for the word. "They were warm-ups. Practice. I was learning what I wanted."

"And what do you want?"

"You." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I want you. Not because you're new, but because you're different. Because when I look at you, I see something I've never seen before."

"What?"

"A survivor." He reached out, his fingers brushing the collar at my throat. "The others, they broke. They let the brothel hollow them out until there was nothing left but the performance. But you—" He shook his head, a small, wondering smile on his lips. "You're still in there. Watching. Planning. Waiting for your moment."

I felt exposed, like he'd reached inside me and pulled out something I'd been trying to hide. "You don't know that."

"I know." His thumb traced the line of my jaw. "I saw it the first night, in the parlour. The way you moved through those men like you were on a different plane. You were performing, yes, but there was something underneath it. Something that refused to be broken."

I didn't know what to say. He was right, and the truth of it made my chest ache.

"I'm not going to break you, Isabella." He said my name like it was precious, like it was a prayer. "I'm going to keep you whole. That's the whole point."

He picked up his phone again, swiping back to the gallery. "The other girls, they were practice for this. For you. I was learning how to be what you need."

"And what do I need?"

He smiled, and it was a different smile than the one he wore for clients—softer, more real. "You need to be seen. Truly seen. Not as a body, not as a fantasy, but as a person. And I can do that."

He swiped to a new photograph, and the image on the screen made me go still.

It was a wall. An empty wall, painted a deep, warm cream, with a single brass light fixture casting a pool of golden light onto the space where a painting would hang.

"That's the spot," he said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. "In the main hall. The first thing you see when you walk in."

I stared at the photograph, at the empty space waiting to be filled. "What's going to go there?"

He looked at me, and his eyes held a promise I didn't fully understand. "Something beautiful."

My throat tightened. The word beautiful sat in the air between us, heavy with everything he wasn't saying. I looked from the screen to his face, searching for the joke, the qualification, the careful retreat I'd learned to expect from men who said pretty things and meant nothing by them. His expression was open, unguarded, and that scared me more than the collar ever had.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" I asked, and my voice came out steadier than I felt.

He smiled, a slow curve that didn't reach his eyes. "I want it to be a surprise."

"I don't like surprises." The words slipped out before I could catch them, and I felt the ghost of Carter in my mouth, that old wariness that had kept me alive through worse nights than this. "Surprises are how people get hurt."

Something flickered across his face—not anger, not quite pity, but a recognition that made my skin prickle. "Is that what the brothel taught you?"

"The brothel taught me to expect the worst." I pulled the sheet up higher, a useless gesture of modesty that felt necessary anyway. "Everything else is a bonus."

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb still moving against the edge of the phone. The lamp hummed its low, steady note, and somewhere beyond the door I heard the muffled sound of a woman's laugh, the clink of a glass, the machinery of the house grinding on without me. It was strange to be on this side of it, to be the one tucked into silk while someone else worked the parlour floor.

"I want to show you the rest," he said finally, and there was a gentleness in his voice that made my chest ache. "Not the gallery. The other rooms. The ones I don't show clients."

He swiped the screen, and the photograph that filled it made me go still.

It was a bedroom. Not the kind in a magazine, staged and impersonal, but a real one—a bed with rumpled sheets, a nightstand stacked with books, a window looking out onto what looked like a garden. Morning light fell across the pillows, soft and honey-colored, the kind of light he'd described in Milan. The kind that made everything look like a painting.

"That's where I sleep," he said, and his voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. "When I'm home. I thought—" He stopped, and for a moment I saw something vulnerable in his face, something he usually kept locked away. "I thought you might want to know what it looks like. Where you'll be."

The words landed in my stomach like a stone. Where you'll be. Not if. Not maybe. A certainty that should have felt like a trap and instead felt like a hand reaching out in the dark.

"You really mean it," I said, and it came out wondering, almost childlike. "You're actually going to take me there."

"I bought you, Isabella." He said it without shame, without the careful euphemisms other men used. "That means you belong to me. And what belongs to me stays with me."

I should have bristled at that, at the ownership in his voice, the casual claim of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. But there was something in the way he said it, a tenderness buried under the possession, that made the words feel less like a cage and more like a promise.

"Show me the garden," I said, and he smiled, a real smile this time, one that reached his eyes and softened the sharp lines of his face.

He swiped through more photographs—the garden in question, a tangle of roses and lavender that looked like it had grown wild and beautiful without permission; a study lined with bookshelves, a leather armchair worn soft with use; a kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack, a bowl of fruit on the counter. Each image was a small confession, a piece of his life he was handing me without asking for anything in return. And I took them, greedily, the way a starving woman takes bread.

"You live alone?" I asked, and the question felt braver than it should have.

"Yes." He didn't elaborate, and I didn't push. There was a weight to that single word, a history I could feel but not see, and I knew better than to dig at a wound I didn't understand.

He swiped to another photograph, and the image made my breath catch.

It was a painting—or rather, the beginning of one. A canvas stretched on a wooden frame, propped on an easel, with only the faintest sketch of a figure taking shape in charcoal. A woman, though the face was unfinished, a ghost of a presence waiting to be brought to life.

"That's in my studio," he said, and his voice had changed, lower, more intimate. "I've been working on it for months. I couldn't figure out what was missing."

He looked at me, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

"Until I saw you."

The words hung there, unfinished, and I felt the weight of them pressing against my chest. "Until you saw me." He'd said it like I was a completion, like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking for years. It was the kind of thing a man said when he wanted something from you, when he was building a story around you that you were supposed to step into and wear like a dress that didn't quite fit.

I'd been wearing costumes my whole life, it felt like. First Carter's skin, then Isabella's. I knew what it was to be shaped by someone else's hands, to become what a man needed me to be. And I was tired of it. Tired of the way their eyes lit up when I said the right thing, the way their hands relaxed when I played the part they'd written for me.

"You say you see me," I said, and my voice came out harder than I'd intended, a blade wrapped in silk. "You say you saw it the first night, in the parlour. That you knew I was different."

He nodded, his thumb still tracing the edge of the phone, his eyes steady on mine. "I did."

"Then tell me something." I let the sheet fall, let the cool air raise goosebumps across my skin, watching his gaze follow the movement and then snap back to my face. "Tell me the lie I've told you tonight."

The room went still. The lamp hummed its low, steady note, and somewhere beyond the door I heard the muffled sound of a woman's laugh, the clink of a glass, the machinery of the house grinding on without me. It was strange to be on this side of it, to be the one tucked into silk while someone else worked the parlour floor.

Luca's thumb stopped moving. He looked at me for a long moment, and I watched the gears turn behind his eyes, the careful calculation of a man who was used to being the one asking questions.

"Is this a test?" he asked, and there was something almost amused in his voice, a flicker of interest that made my skin prickle.

"You said you see me. You said you know I'm a survivor, that I'm watching, planning, waiting for my moment." I held his gaze, refusing to look away first. "A man who sees that much should be able to tell me what I'm hiding."

He was quiet for a long moment, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing, a pressure against my skin. I'd spent three weeks in this house learning to read men, learning to give them what they wanted before they knew they wanted it. But Luca was different. He was a collector, a man who'd made a study of beautiful things, and I knew he was cataloging me even now, filing away every flicker of my eyes, every shift of my weight.

"You're afraid," he said finally, and his voice was soft, almost gentle. "Not of me. Not of the brothel. You're afraid of what happens if you let yourself want this."

I felt my jaw tighten. "That's not a lie. That's an observation."

"Then let me look closer." He set the phone down on the nightstand, the screen going dark, and turned his full attention to me. The lamp cast his face in shadow and gold, sharpening the lines of his jaw, deepening the hollows of his cheeks. He looked like a painting himself, I thought, something old and expensive and full of secrets.

"You told me you don't like surprises," he said. "You told me that surprises are how people get hurt. And I believe you mean that. But there's something underneath it, something you're not saying."

I crossed my arms over my chest, a defensive gesture I couldn't quite stop. "And what's that?"

"You've been hurt before," he said, and the words landed like stones in the quiet. "Not by the brothel. Before that. You carry it in the way you hold yourself, the way you watch every hand in the room. You've learned to expect the worst because the worst has happened to you, more than once, and you've survived it."

I felt something crack open in my chest, a fissure I'd been holding closed for weeks, for years. He wasn't guessing. He was reading me like a book, page by page, and I didn't know how to stop him.

"That's not a lie either," I managed, and my voice came out thinner than I wanted. "That's just... that's just what happens to people."

"Is it?" He leaned forward, and the movement brought him closer, close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne on his skin, the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. "Or is it what happens to people who are taught, early and often, that they're not worth protecting?"

The words hit me like a blow to the sternum, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. He was too close to the truth, too close to the thing I'd been carrying since before the transformation, since before I was Isabella, since I was Carter and I was learning, over and over, that the world would take what it wanted and leave nothing behind.

"You're deflecting," I said, and my voice was steadier than I felt. "I asked you to name a lie. You're giving me a diagnosis instead."

He smiled, a slow curve that didn't reach his eyes. "You're right. I am." He settled back against the headboard, crossing one ankle over the other, and I watched the ease settle into his body like a coat he'd worn a hundred times. "But you're doing the same thing. You asked me to prove I see you, and now that I'm getting close, you're pushing me away."

"I'm not—"

"You are." He said it simply, without accusation, without the edge of a man trying to win an argument. "You're afraid that if I see you too clearly, you won't be able to hide anymore. And hiding is the only thing that's kept you alive."

I opened my mouth to deny it, and found that I couldn't. The words stuck in my throat, caught on the truth of what he'd said. I'd been hiding for so long that I didn't know how to be anything else. I'd hidden inside Carter's skin, playing a role I'd never chosen. I'd hidden inside Isabella's curves, learning to be the woman the Don had made me. I'd hidden in the parlour, performing for men who saw only what I let them see.

And Luca saw through all of it.

"You're good at this," I said, and the words came out bitter, a sour taste on my tongue. "The soft voice, the careful observations. You've done this before, haven't you? With Maria. With Claudia."

Something flickered across his face, a shadow that was gone before I could name it. "I told you. They were practice."

"Practice for what?" I asked, and I heard the edge in my own voice, the sharpness of a woman who'd learned to fight with words because she had nothing else. "For finding the one who wouldn't break? For finding the one who'd be worth keeping?"

He was quiet for a moment, and I watched him consider his answer, the way a man considers a chess move. "For learning what not to do," he said finally. "For learning that you can't force someone to open up. You can only make it safe enough for them to choose it."

I felt the words land in my chest, heavy and warm, and I didn't know what to do with them. I'd spent so long expecting the worst, bracing for the blow, that I didn't know how to hold something gentle without waiting for it to turn sharp.

"You still haven't named the lie," I said, and my voice was quieter now, almost a whisper.

"No," he agreed. "Because it's not a lie you've told me. It's a lie you've told yourself."

I felt my throat tighten. "And what's that?"

He looked at me for a long moment, his hazel eyes catching the lamplight, and I saw something in them that I couldn't quite name. Not pity, not hunger, but something in between, something that made my skin prickle with a feeling I didn't want to examine.

"That you're doing this to survive," he said. "That you're playing a role because you have to, because it's the only way out. But I think you're starting to want it. I think you're starting to want to be seen, truly seen, even if it scares you."

I felt the air leave my lungs, and for a moment I couldn't speak. He was right. He was so painfully right that I could feel the truth of it burning in my chest, a confession I hadn't been ready to make even to myself.

"That's not—" I started, and my voice cracked. I stopped, swallowed, tried again. "That's not a lie. That's a theory."

"Is it wrong?"

I looked at him, at the open, unguarded expression on his face, and I felt the collar at my throat like a brand, warm and heavy and impossible to forget. He was asking me to be honest, truly honest, and I didn't know if I had it in me.

"I don't know," I said, and the words felt like a surrender, like laying down a weapon I'd been holding for years. "I don't know what I want anymore."

He didn't move, didn't speak, and the silence stretched between us, thick and charged. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, could feel the pulse of it in my throat, and I wondered if he could see it too, the evidence of how much he'd gotten under my skin.

"That's the most honest thing you've said all night," he said finally, and there was something soft in his voice, something almost tender. "And I think it's the most honest thing you've said to anyone in a long time."

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I blinked them back, furious at myself for the weakness. I'd survived three weeks in this house, an hour with three soldiers, a night with Tommy, and I'd done it all without crying. I wasn't going to break now, not in front of a man who was paying for me, not when I'd worked so hard to keep myself together.

"You want to know what I see?" he asked, and his voice was low, intimate, a thread pulled tight between us. "I see a woman who's been fighting so long that she's forgotten how to stop. I see someone who's learned to expect the worst because the worst has happened, over and over, and she's still standing. I see someone who's so afraid of being hurt that she'll push away the one thing that might save her."

His hand moved, reaching across the space between us, and I felt his fingers brush against my cheek, light as a feather. I flinched before I could stop myself, a reflex born of years of bracing for blows, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—not anger, not disappointment, but a recognition that made my chest ache.

"I see you," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "And I'm not going to hurt you, Isabella. That's the whole point."

I looked at him, at the man who'd bought me, who'd collared me, who'd promised to keep me whole, and I felt something shift in my chest, a crack in the armor I'd built around myself. He was offering me something I'd never had, never dared to want: safety. Someone who saw me, truly saw me, and wanted to keep me anyway.

And I didn't know if I could trust it.

"You keep saying that," I said, and my voice was hoarse, raw. "That you're not going to hurt me. But you bought me. You put a collar around my throat. You own me."

"I know." He didn't look away, didn't flinch from the accusation in my words. "And I know that must feel like a cage. But I didn't buy you to trap you, Isabella. I bought you to keep you safe. To give you a life where you don't have to perform, don't have to hide, don't have to brace for the worst."

"And what if I don't want to be kept?" I asked, and the question came out sharper than I'd intended, a blade I'd been sharpening for weeks. "What if I want to be free?"

He was quiet for a moment, and I watched his face, searching for the crack, the tell, the moment when the mask slipped and I saw the collector underneath, the man who wanted to own beautiful things. But his expression stayed open, unguarded, and I felt my own certainty waver.

"Then I'd let you go," he said, and his voice was steady, sure. "I'd open the door and I'd let you walk through it. Not because I'd want to, but because keeping you against your will would break the thing I'm trying to preserve."

I stared at him, trying to find the lie, the manipulation, the careful calculation I'd learned to expect from men who said pretty things and meant nothing by them. But his eyes held mine, clear and honest, and I felt something in my chest crack open, a door I'd kept locked for so long that I'd forgotten it was there.

"You really mean that," I said, and it came out wondering, almost childlike. "You'd actually let me go."

"If that's what you wanted," he said. "But I don't think it is."

I felt my throat tighten. "How do you know?"

"Because you're still here." He reached out again, and this time I didn't flinch. His fingers brushed against the collar at my throat, light as a whisper, and I felt the warmth of his touch seep into my skin. "Because you asked me to see you. Because you're still talking to me, even when it scares you."

I looked at him, at the man who'd seen through every wall I'd built, and I felt the truth of his words settle into my bones. He was right. I was still here. I was still talking. And some part of me, the part I'd been trying to ignore, wanted to stay.

"I don't know how to do this," I said, and my voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know how to trust someone."

"You don't have to," he said. "Not all at once. You just have to let me show you that I'm worth trusting."

He leaned forward, and I felt his breath warm against my skin, his lips hovering just above mine. The collar at my throat felt heavy, a reminder of what I was, what I'd become. But his hand was gentle on my jaw, his eyes soft and patient, and I felt myself leaning into him, drawn by a gravity I couldn't name.

I let him close the distance. His lips met mine, soft at first, a question rather than a demand, and I felt something loosen in my chest that I hadn't known was clenched. The kiss deepened slowly, his hand sliding from my jaw to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I made a sound against his mouth that I didn't recognize as my own. It wasn't the practiced performance I'd given a hundred men in this house. It was something rawer, something that came from a place I'd been keeping locked away.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, and I could feel his breath warm on my lips, could smell the whiskey and the expensive soap on his skin. "That wasn't a lie," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped clean of its polish. "That was you."

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to pull the mask back on, to retreat into the performance that had kept me alive for three weeks in this house, for years before it. But the words wouldn't come, and I found I didn't want them to. I wanted to stay here, in this strange, suspended moment, where a man who'd bought me was looking at me like I was something precious instead of something used.

"You asked me to name a lie," he said, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw, feather-light. "The lie is that you're doing this for survival. The lie is that you've convinced yourself you're just playing a role, that none of this touches you, that you can walk away clean when the door opens." His eyes held mine, steady and sure. "But I've watched you, Isabella. I've watched the way you hold yourself, the way you watch every hand in the room, the way you brace for the blow before it lands. That's not a woman who's untouched. That's a woman who's been hurt so many times that she's forgotten how to let anyone close."

I felt the tears prick at my eyes again, and this time I didn't blink them back. They spilled over, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks, and I hated myself for the weakness, for letting him see me crack. But he didn't look away, didn't flinch, didn't reach for the easy comfort of a lie. He just watched, patient and steady, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my mouth.

"There," he said softly. "That's the truth. That's what I see when I look at you. Not a whore, not a survivor, not a role. Just a woman who's been fighting so long that she's forgotten what it feels like to stop."

The words landed in my chest and I felt the crack widen, the armor I'd built around myself splintering along fault lines I hadn't known were there. I'd spent so long being what other people needed me to be—Carter, then Isabella, then the fantasy each man in the parlour wanted to fuck—that I'd lost the thread of who I was underneath it all. And here was this man, this collector of beautiful things, telling me he could see the woman beneath the costume.

"I don't know who I am," I said, and the confession came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "I don't know what I want. I don't know if I'm even real, or if I'm just something the Don made, something you bought."

"You're real," he said, and his voice was firm, certain. "You're the most real thing I've found in years. And I didn't buy you to own you, Isabella. I bought you to keep you safe. To give you the space to figure out who you are, without the threat of the parlour, without the danger of the house."

I looked at him, at the man who'd seen through every wall I'd built, who'd named the lie I'd been telling myself for so long that I'd started to believe it, and I felt something shift in my chest. Not trust, not yet—that was too much to ask, too much to give. But a crack in the door, a sliver of light where there had been only darkness.

I wanted to lean into that light. I wanted to let it wash over me, to stop fighting the current and simply let it carry me somewhere I didn't have to brace myself. But the part of me that had kept me alive—the part that had learned to read the temperature of a room before I entered it, to spot the exit before I took a seat—that part was still watching, still waiting for the other shoe.

"You keep saying that," I said, and my voice was quiet, almost wondering. "That you want to keep me safe. That you see me." I reached up and touched the collar at my throat, the cool gold warm now from my skin. "But you haven't told me what you want from me."

His eyes followed my fingers, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of something I couldn't quite name. "I told you. I want to preserve you."

"That's not an answer." I held his gaze, refusing to look away. "That's a word you use to make it sound noble. What do you actually want, Luca? What do you want when you look at me?"

He was quiet for a long moment, and I watched him consider the question, the way a man considers a chess move. The lamp hummed its low, steady note, and somewhere beyond the door I heard the muffled sound of a woman's laugh, the clink of a glass, the machinery of the house grinding on without me.

"I want to know what's underneath," he said finally, and his voice was lower now, rougher, the polish scraped away. "I want to see the woman who learned to watch every hand in the room. I want to know what she's afraid of, what she wants, what she'd do if she didn't have to fight for it." He leaned forward, and the movement brought him closer, close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne on his skin, the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. "I want to be the one she shows herself to."

"And what if you don't like what you find?" I asked, and my voice was thinner than I wanted. "What if the woman underneath is someone you don't want to keep?"

He reached out and took my hand, his fingers warm and dry around mine. "Then I'll have learned something true," he said. "And that's worth more to me than a hundred pretty lies."