Lyla Rose

________

I grip his shoulders, trying to steady myself as the lingering effects of the drug make my body feel weak. The world around me feels hazy, and I can't find the strength to fight back. I should protest, I know, but my heart still aches too much, and deep down, there's a part of me that's just grateful Carter brought me here, away from that hell.

His gaze softens just a little, though his grip on me remains firm. "Stop moving before I do something we'll both regret," he says, his voice low and dangerous, like a warning. "You're in no state to fight me right now."

I don't reply, my body trembling as I try to regain some composure. The words linger, but I can't muster the energy to argue. So, I relent, finally resting my head on his chest, my body exhausted, my mind foggy. "Thank you for taking me away from there..." My voice cracks, heartbroken. "They were going to lock me up in the basement."

His expression softens, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek gently. "I would burn down that whole fucking palace before I let them lock you up," he murmurs, his voice thick with protectiveness. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip with an almost tender touch. "You're too precious to be kept in a cage."

I blink up at him, confusion swirling inside me, but the exhaustion weighs heavily on my chest. I'm too tired to question him, too worn out to try and understand why he's saying any of this. At least someone thinks differently. At least someone cares.

He shifts, pulling me more securely against him, and leans back against the headboard. His phone buzzes, but he ignores it, his focus solely on me. "You're hungry?" he asks quietly, his thumb still tracing my lips gently. The scent of expensive cigars and leather surrounds me, mixing with the strange calm that has settled between us. "Tell me what you want, and I'll have it sent up."

"Anything... I'll eat anything," I whisper weakly, my voice barely audible as I sit in his lap, the dizziness still clouding my thoughts.

His jaw tightens at my weak whisper and without hesitation, he presses a button on the bedside phone. "Send up pasta carbonara and tiramisu immediately." His deep voice commands the kitchen staff before hanging up. His hands automatically start rubbing soothing circles on my back, his touch almost calming. "Eat everything," he orders, his voice soft but firm.

"I don't feel okay," I whisper, feeling a wave of restlessness churn inside me. I squirm slightly, trying to adjust myself, but everything feels off, like I can't find comfort anywhere.

His hands tighten around my hips, stopping my restless movement. "Rose," he says, his tone turning serious and commanding. "You're making me crazy with all this movement. Just sit still for five fucking minutes until the food gets here." There's anger in his voice, but his touch remains gentle, as if trying to soothe me.

I whimper, feeling the pressure in my lower abdomen as I shift again, trying to get comfortable, but something hard presses against me. I push him back slightly, squirming in discomfort.

His face hardens as I continue to move. "Stop fucking moving," he growls, his hands sliding up to grip my hips firmly, pressing me down harder onto him. "You're not helping the situation," he mutters, his voice low, almost a warning. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin. "Sit still."

I look up at him with hooded eyes, my chest tight, and there's a knock on the door. The staff enters, pushing a trolley with trays of food.

His jaw clenches as he keeps his hands firm on my hips to hold me in place. "Leave it on the table," he commands, his voice unwavering. "And get out." The staff quickly obey, setting the food down and closing the door behind them.

I feel sick, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. "I feel like throwing up," I whisper weakly, unable to ignore the sudden dizziness that swirls inside me. But he doesn't move, doesn't let go. His eyes remain focused on me.

He picks up a glass of cold orange juice and makes me drink it, his touch gentle but firm. I sip slowly, letting the cool liquid settle in my stomach. He doesn't say anything, but his gaze softens as I start to calm down a little.

Once I've finished, he gently lifts me off his lap and sets me down on the bed, standing up and grabs a plate of pasta. "Eat," he orders, his tone firm but not unkind. He sits back down beside me with his own plate. "Slowly."

I grab the fork, my fingers trembling, struggling to grip the pasta. The effort feels exhausting, my muscles weak, and the simple task seems impossible.

He watches me, his brows furrowing in frustration, his eyes hardening. "Let me," he says gruffly, and takes the fork from my trembling hand. Without a word, he begins feeding me, forcing me to eat slowly, carefully. "You're shaking too much," he mutters, his voice softer than before, though there's still an edge to it.

I feel strange, the unfamiliar warmth of his hands and the food filling me, but it doesn't feel right. I whimper slightly, the discomfort too much. Despite everything, I manage to take another small bite.

He continues feeding me, ignoring my quiet whimpers, his attention fixed on getting food into my mouth. "Drink some more juice," he orders, handing me the glass, his gaze steady, unwavering. "And eat the damn tiramisu. You love it." He sets the plate of dessert in front of me.

"How do you know?" I pout and take a small bite of tiramisu. It's rich and sweet, and to my surprise, it actually makes me feel a little better.

He smirks slightly, his gaze sharp as he watches me. "I pay attention," he murmurs, his tone almost teasing. He leans in, his eyes dark. "See? I told you it would make you feel better." He reaches forward, his thumb brushing gently over the corner of my mouth where a spot of cream has smeared. "Messy."

Lyla Rose

________

I blink, my throat tight. "How... do you know what I like?" I repeat, my voice quiet, almost questioning. "You're my ex-husband's uncle. You shouldn't know about me... And what should I call you now?" I shrug my tiny shoulders.

His expression hardens, and his hand drops from my face. His jaw clenches as he takes a moment to process my words. "Call me Carter," he says firmly, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. "And don't fucking remind me that you were married to that piece of shit." His eyes narrow, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I want to kill him every time I think about it."

I fall silent at his words, unsure what to say. The quiet that falls between us feels heavy, but his words... they almost make me feel like someone sees me, like someone feels the same fury I do. Still, the weight of everything, the betrayal, my loneliness sits in my chest like a stone.

"Vincent never deserved you," he says bluntly, his voice low and dangerous. He presses a soft kiss to my temple, his breath warm against my skin. "You know that, right?"

I stay silent, unsure how to respond. My heart is still raw and his words, though comforting, feel distant. The pain of what I lost is too overwhelming. I don't have anything left to say, not when I'm still hurting this much.

__________

Carter Ricci

__________

I respect her silence and do not push for a response. Her quietness speaks volumes, and I'm not one to disturb that. Instead, I pick up her empty plate and set it aside, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders, wrapping her in a softness she hasn't known in far too long.

Then, I notice it, the ring still on her finger. Vincent's ring.

"You're still wearing his ring," I say quietly, trying not to sound accusatory.

She doesn't respond, her fingers tense as I gently slide it off her hand. Without hesitation, I throw it onto the floor.

The sound of the diamond wedding band hitting the floor is sharp, final. A satisfying clatter. I stare at it for a moment, my jaw clenching as I look at the symbol of betrayal. I bring my foot down hard, crushing it under the heel of my expensive dress shoe.

"Good fucking riddance," I mutter under my breath, my gaze flicking back to her finger, the skin raw from where that damn thing had bound it.

She stays silent. I can see it in her eyes; she finds me strange, but there's something in her that holds her back from saying anything.

After a long moment, she shifts uncomfortably, breaking the silence. "Uhh... Can I have a shower?" Her voice is awkward and uncertain.

I pause, my gaze snapping up to meet hers. "Shower?" I repeat, my tone controlled, the weight of the moment heavier than it should be.

I stand, moving toward the en-suite bathroom without waiting for a response, my steps deliberate. "You can have whatever you want, tesoro," I call over my shoulder, turning the water on, letting the steam fill the room.

_________

Lyla Rose

________

"What should I wear?" I ask, rising slowly, my body still weighed down. I walk toward the walk-in closet and pull the door open. My eyes widen as I look in the closet; lingerie, dresses, shorts, gowns, every piece in my size, stacked and hanging, filling the space. I frown, unsure what to make of it. These can't be for me, can they?

Carter's always been single. Vincent used to joke about his "virgin uncle" Carter. So whose clothes are these?

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat when I hear his footsteps behind me.

He leans against the doorframe, watching my confusion with amusement.

"Those are all for you," he says, circling his arms over his chest. "I might be single, but I'm not a fucking idiot. I knew you'd need clothes eventually."

My eyes widen and I turn slowly to face him. "You... bought it?" I ask in disbelief.

He laughs lightly, walking into the closet with me. His presence is commanding as he looks around, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

"I bought it for you. It was delivered this morning. And I have excellent taste in women's clothing. You'll find everything you need in here, lingerie, dresses, jeans, swimwear..." His voice trails off as he stops in front of a rack of expensive lingerie sets.

I feel my face flush slightly, my mind racing. How does he know my size? Why would he even care?

He smirks at my blush, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he reaches out to touch a delicate sapphire blue lingerie set. The lace is soft and inviting, and I can't help but feel embarrassed.

"I have my ways," he says cryptically, his voice low and teasing. He looks back at me, his expression shifting to something more serious. "You can wear whatever you want, tesoro."

I swallow hard, suddenly self-conscious about choosing lingerie in front of him.

He notices my discomfort and chuckles darkly, stepping closer until he's towering over me, his presence overpowering.

"You're embarrassed to pick out underwear in front of me?" His voice drops to a low murmur. "Yet you just spent the last hour sitting on my cock."

I freeze, my heart racing as I process his words. The blush on my face deepens, and I feel the weight of his gaze on me, making my skin burn with heat. He's right. He made me sit on his lap earlier, and I was too weak to protest.

Before I can respond, he grabs a simple black silk set with delicate lace trim and hands it to me.

"Here. This one."

I can't help but almost snatch the lingerie from his hand. I hide it behind my back, trying to shield myself from his gaze.

He watches me hide the lingerie, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Go shower before I decide to join you and wash your back myself." His tone is teasing, but the underlying seriousness in his voice makes me blush even deeper. "And don't lock the bathroom door."

I stand there for a moment, unsure what to say. I just want to be alone, to clear my head. "Uh... a dress?" I ask softly, reaching for a tiny white spaghetti-strap dress hanging on a nearby rack.

He steps closer, his eyes fixed on me. "You can wear that," he growls. "It's fucking tiny."

The comment makes me feel self-conscious. I grab the dress and spin away, hurrying to the en-suite bathroom.

Inside, the warm water from the shower soothes my skin but does nothing for the ache in my chest. I close my eyes, trying to shut everything else out, but my thoughts are consumed by Vincent, how easily he discarded me, as if our six-month marriage meant nothing.

The pain is suffocating. How quickly he moved on, how easily he found someone new. How easily a woman can be thrown away just for being infertile. I can't stop the tears from falling, even as I try to push the thoughts away. The weight of it all; his betrayal, his lies, presses down on me, threatening to crush me completely.

Carter Ricci

_________

I sit on the bed, my massive bulge tightening in my boxers. I'm so close to finally claiming her, to making her mine in ways she can't even understand yet. But fuck, I don't want to hurt her. She's fragile and I know that.

She steps back into the room, and my smirk falters momentarily as I take in her appearance. The white dress hugs her petite, fair frame perfectly, highlighting every curve and leaving very little to the imagination. My breath catches, and I quickly compose myself, leaning against the bed, trying to keep my thoughts focused.

"Come here."

She walks toward me with the towel in her hand.

I reach out and take the towel from her, my fingers brushing against hers as I gently remove it. I fold it neatly, tossing it onto a nearby chair without looking at it. My eyes are still on her. "Turn around."

She does, her back facing me, and I step closer, letting my hands rest on her waist. The soft fabric of the dress contrasts against her smooth skin and I notice the low dip of the dress at her back, exposing the delicate lace of the black lingerie she's wearing underneath.

"Fucking perfect," I murmur under my breath. My thumbs trace the bare skin of her lower back as I lean in closer. "Now, sit on the bed."

I watch her, a little taken aback by the way she moves, almost hesitant. She sits on the bed and I grab another towel and dry her hair. There's something about this moment that feels different, something that makes me want to take my time, to care for her in ways I've never done for anyone else.

"You're quiet," I comment, my hands gently working through her damp hair. She's tense, but I can tell she's not fighting me. I continue drying her hair slowly, feeling the softness of her strands slip through my fingers. I want her to relax, to trust me, even if she doesn't fully understand why I'm doing this.

I finish drying her hair, my fingers lingering in the strands one last time. A sharp knock at the door interrupts me. My men stand there, serious and alert. One of them clears his throat. "Boss, the meeting starts in ten minutes."

"Sarò lì tra cinque minuti," I reply sharply, my tone leaving no room for argument. (I'll be there in five minutes.) Once they leave, I turn back to her, dropping the towel on the bed, stepping back. "Stay here. Don't leave this room."

She looks at me, almost like she's not sure if she should be locked away or free. "Can't I explore the penthouse? I need something to get my mind off everything," she asks, her voice quiet, tentative.

I pause for a moment, considering. I know she's probably going stir-crazy being cooped up in this room. But there's a limit to what I can allow. "Fine," I say finally, with a little more leniency than I wanted to show. "But stick to the public areas only. Kitchen, living room, dining room. And don't open any locked doors."

She frowns slightly but nods, and I see the curiosity in her eyes. I know she doesn't understand why I'm restricting her, but there's no way I can explain it. Not yet.

I step closer to her, tilting her chin up with my finger, my eyes locking with hers. "I mean it, tesoro." My voice lowers, turning serious. "Some things are none of your business. Understand?"

Her eyes flicker with a mix of confusion and reluctance, but she nods.

I release her chin and put on my black suit, adjusting my jacket as I straighten it out. "I have to go," I say, my voice softening just a little. "Stay out of trouble."

As I walk toward the door, my mind drifts to the one thing I've been hiding, the parts of me she can never know. The man I truly am, the dark secrets buried deep. Too much is at stake now, too much she could never understand. I can't let her in. Not fully.

My little Rose, still so naive. She doesn't know how dangerous this world can be. Daddy keeps dirty little secrets, and he doesn't want his little princess finding out.

I chuckle darkly, stepping out of the room and heading toward the waiting limo.

My men stand at attention, Nikolai and the others, all greet me with respectful bows.

"Sire," they say in unison, their eyes lowered as I walk past them, my presence dominating the air like a storm about to break.

I climb into the backseat of the limo, the small bar within arm's reach. I pour myself a drink, savoring the taste of whiskey as the car starts moving, the driver taking me to the Ricci firm. My thoughts wander to Rose, as they always do. I need to keep it together. But god, I can't stop thinking about her. She's got me fucked in the head.

The limo pulls up outside the firm and I step out, walking through the entrance. My staff bows in respect as I pass, their gazes fixed on the floor. I couldn't care less about their attention. The only set of eyes I want on me is hers.

I stop in my tracks, the faint shuffle of heels behind me catching my attention. Cordelia, my business partner's wife, steps forward, her voice sultry as she greets me.

"Mr Ricci," she purrs, tilting her head, "how are you today?"

I nod, barely acknowledging her, my eyes fixed ahead.

"I was wondering about the deal with my husband," she continues, her tone playful but probing.

I glance at her briefly, my voice low and sharp. "Confidential."

She smiles, not backing down. "Surely, you can give me something? Just a hint?"

I give her a small, almost imperceptible shrug, letting the tension hang in the air. Without another word, I turn and stride past her, my coat brushing her arm as I make my way to the elevators.

The doors slide open and I step inside. I press the button for the hundredth floor. My mind shifts back to business, but Rose lingers at the edge of every thought, pulling at me like a silent storm.