Mia POV
The heavy, insistent pounding on my apartment door started before the sun had risen.
I sat in a tight knot on the floor of my tiny, rundown living room, my knees pulled to my chin. The threat of the underworld collectors was no longer a vague fear; it was a physical presence in the room with me. They had called me twice in the middle of the night, their voices rough and violent, demanding the monthly payment for the debt I now knew was a lie.
The pounding ceased, replaced by the grating sound of a key turning in the lock.
Only one other person had a key to my apartment.
The door swung open, and Dante walked in. He was not wearing the impeccable bespoke suit from yesterday; he wore a faded jacket and worn-out jeans, and in his hand he held a small plastic bag of cheap apples. He was playing his twisted role again, acting precisely like the desperate, beleaguered man I thought I had fallen in love with.
"Mia," he said softly, his voice laced with a carefully crafted concern. "I heard you lost your job."
I stared at him, my stomach churning with a sour heat. How could he stand there and lie so easily to my face?
"I know who you are, Dante," I said, my voice hollow and thin. "I saw you. I heard you."
He set the bag of fruit on the cheap wooden table. He did not look panicked at all. He looked entirely, terrifyingly in control. He crossed the space between us in two strides and crouched down in front of me.
"I hid my wealth to ensure you loved me for me," he lied smoothly, his dark, unreadable eyes locked onto mine. "In my world, women only want the crown. They only want the money. I needed to know you were pure."
A dense, cold stone sat in my chest.
"You let me starve," I whispered, the betrayal a physical burn in my throat. "You let me work until my hands bled to pay off a debt that did not exist."
"It was a test," he said casually, dismissing my pain as if it were a trifle. "And now, I am going to take care of you. I will get you a respectable job at my company. You will be safe there."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek, black-and-gold Familia corporate card, placing it on the floor next to me.
"Go to the headquarters tomorrow morning," he said. "Ask for the HR Fixer."
He stood up and walked out, leaving me alone with the cheap fruit and the terrifying reality of the collectors who still wanted my money.
I picked up the card, my fingers trembling. I had no choice. But as I looked at the black-and-gold emblem, a single question burned in my mind: Was he saving me, or setting me up for something worse?
