Chapter 2 You shouldn't be here

The marble still bore the damp imprint of her escape.

Luciano ran his fingers along the edge of the banister as he descended the stairs. Slowly. As if savoring every second. Less than an hour had passed since the incident, but his mind remained glued to that absurd and out-of-place image: the maid crossing the main hall, her shoes soaked and her dignity... erect.

"So you're hiding now."

Amelia, crouching behind the service door, sat bolt upright. His voice betrayed him before his footsteps could be heard. He always spoke as if everything belonged to him: the air, the ground, the right to disturb.

Luciano leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his arms. He was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp.

"Nice entrance earlier," he said with a mocking half-smile. "Persian rug, wet feet. Must be a new tradition among your kind."

Amelia clenched her fists tightly. Not because she hadn't expected the comment. She expected it. She knew him. He was that kind of rich guy.

But it hurt just the same.

"I'm sorry. I had no choice," she replied, her voice calmer than she thought she had at that moment.

"You had no choice?" Luciano laughed sarcastically. "There's always a choice. For example: entering like any decent employee. Through the backyard, without any fuss. But of course... you're different, aren't you? A rising star? Or just clumsy?"

She looked at him, this time without lowering her eyes. No. She wasn't going to duck again. Not after that call. Not after learning that her father-her father, who barely had two shirts left without holes in them-had left a debt with a guy who, according to the caller, doesn't ask questions, but does shoot.

"I don't have to explain anything to you," he said slowly.

Luciano raised an eyebrow. He took a step closer. Not aggressive, but enough to make her uncomfortable.

"Oh, no? How strange. Because you're in my house, treading on my floor, with your personal tragedy dripping all over it."

"It's not your house," she said in a whisper. And then, more forcefully, "It's your father's."

Luciano stopped. That was a low blow, he knew. But he would never admit it. Not in front of her.

"You have guts," he said, smiling disdainfully. "For a mop."

"And you have an ego the size of the dining room. For someone who hasn't earned anything for himself."

Silence.

Luciano felt something in his stomach tighten. It was anger. It was something more.

He took another step closer. She didn't move.

"You shouldn't be here," he said in a low, gravelly voice.

"You already told me."

"No. I mean here." And he pointed a finger at the floor between them. In front of me. Speaking to me like that. As if your opinion was worth anything.

Amelia felt her body tense. Pride boiled in her blood, but there was something else there, beating deeper: a strange, tense heat, she didn't know if it was desire or defiance. She wasn't sure. She only knew she wasn't going to back down.

Not in front of him.

She looked at him. Firm. Direct. Unblinking.

"I'm not afraid."

Luciano studied her for a long second. That look unsettled him. It wasn't the typical pleading look. It wasn't submission. It was as if she knew something about him that he himself hadn't figured out.

"Maybe you should have it," she replied.

"Maybe you should step down from your high horse."

The tension was a thin thread between them. Luciano swallowed, not wanting it to show. There was something about that girl. Something about the way she didn't back down, the way she spoke without embellishment. It irritated him. Confused him.

She attracted him.

And that... that infuriated him even more.

He took a step back, as if with that he could cut short the urge to grab her arm, push her against the wall, and silence her with something other than words.

"The next time I see you in the main hallway," he said, his cold tone returning, "I'm going to have you fired. Understand?"

Amelia looked at him, saying nothing. Her eyes, dark and large, showed not a shred of fear.

Only contempt. And something more. The very thing he was trying to deny.

Luciano turned around, but before crossing the threshold, he stopped.

"And wipe your face. You look like a pulp novel."

He left the room without waiting for a reply.

And she, for the first time all afternoon, smiled.

Not out of happiness.

But because she had just seen something not many could see:

He wasn't as calm as he pretended.

Amelia was alone, but her mind wasn't.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could still smell his cologne. That damn cologne that cost more than her entire salary.

She remembered his voice. His mocking tone.

"You sound like a cheap novel."

And yet...

he had left uncomfortably.

She had gained something. She didn't know what exactly, but she felt it.

She picked up the mop she'd left at the entrance to the music room and refilled the bucket with soap and water. The work went on. Life didn't stop for a couple of sharp phrases.

But her heart, the one she'd learned to harden since she was a child, had been shaken.

Not by what Luciano said.

But by what he didn't say.

And by the way he looked at her.

As if, for a fleeting moment, she was no longer a servant...

but a threat.

Luciano, in his room, threw his shirt to the floor with a curt gesture.

He walked to the window and flung it open. The cool evening air did little to calm him.

The conversation had left a metallic taste in his mouth.

It wasn't the first time a servant had crossed a line. But this wasn't the same.

She didn't look at him with fear or submission.

She looked at him as if she could see inside him. And that scared him.

He splashed cold water on his face. He leaned against the sink.

Why did he care?

She was just an employee.

Just another one.

But that mouth. Those eyes.

That attitude.

Luciano gritted his teeth. Maybe he needed to put her in her place.

Or maybe...

he just needed to see her again.