Chapter 3 The Cost Of Running

The night before the wedding, Valencia disappeared.

She slipped out through the servant's entrance, dressed in black, her face hidden beneath a borrowed scarf. No heels. No jewelry. Just shadows and silence, like she had been planning it for years-because she had.

She didn't make it far.

Thirty miles outside the city, at a rundown train station with flickering lights and the smell of old coffee, two men in black intercepted her.

They didn't say a word. Just nodded once and stepped aside as a black car pulled up.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as the door opened.

Luca.

He stepped out slowly, like he wasn't in a rush-like he'd known exactly where she'd be. His coat flared in the night wind, hands buried in his pockets, and his expression unreadable.

"Get in the car, Valencia."

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.

She stared at him, stunned by the calm fury in his tone. "You followed me."

"No." He tilted his head. "I waited."

Her breath hitched. "You knew I'd run?"

"Everyone does when they're not ready to bleed."

"I'm not afraid to bleed," she snapped.

"Then why are you out here dressed like a thief?"

She didn't answer. There was nothing to say. Her plan was simple-run, hide, start over. Maybe in another country. Maybe with a new name. But Luca had found her. Or maybe, she thought bitterly, she had never really left his reach.

"Valencia," he said again, quieter this time. "Get. In."

She didn't move.

He sighed. A low, dangerous sound.

Then, without warning, he crossed the distance between them, gripped her arm-not hard, but firm-and led her to the car.

She didn't fight him. There was no point.

The ride back was silent. No music. No threats. Just the hum of the engine and the weight of her mistake.

When they pulled into the estate, Luca didn't speak. He simply stepped out, opened her door, and gestured for her to follow. She did, legs trembling with exhaustion and fear.

Inside, the house was dark, save for a single light glowing in the sitting room.

He stopped there. Turned to her.

"You want to run? Fine. But understand this-"

She lifted her chin. "What? You'll kill me?"

"No." His voice was ice. "That would be easy. But you'll learn something about me, Valencia. I don't take betrayal lightly."

She flinched. "It's not betrayal. I never agreed to this-"

"You showed up. You wore the dress. You met me at the stairs. You played your part."

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

"You think this is a game? That you can walk away like this is some bad date?"

"I'm not yours!" she yelled.

He smiled-cold, merciless. "You were mine the second your father sold your name to settle his sins."

She wanted to scream. Hit something. Maybe even him. But his eyes-they burned with control so brutal, it made her feel like she was choking.

He stepped closer. "I won't stop you from running again. But next time, I won't come for you."

Her brows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"It means if you run again, you're on your own. And in my world, being alone means being dead. Quickly... or slowly. Depends on who finds you first."

The truth in his words sent a shiver down her spine.

She'd forgotten who he was. What he was.

Luca Moretti wasn't just dangerous. He was the shadow people whispered about in alleyways. The man you called when death seemed too merciful.

And she had tried to run from him.

He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "You made your first mistake. I'll let it go... this once."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving her in the silence of her own consequence.

Later that night, Valencia sat on the edge of her bed, numb.

The house was quiet, but her thoughts weren't.

She had tried to escape, and now she knew. There was no exit.

Not one that left her breathing.

There was a knock at the door. She didn't answer. Still, it opened.

Elena, the older housemaid, stepped in holding a velvet box. She said nothing-just set it on the table and gave her a long, pitying look before retreating.

Valencia walked over slowly, opening the box with trembling fingers.

Inside was a necklace. Not delicate. Not soft.

It was a choker-black and gold, heavy with diamonds and something darker. A symbol. A statement.

A collar.

Attached was a note in Luca's handwriting.

"A reminder. You can dress like fire. You can fight like iron. But you belong to me now."

She swallowed hard, fingers curling around the velvet edge of the box.

The war had begun.

And she'd already lost the first round.