Chapter Three – Rumors in the Air

The morning after the gala felt like a hangover, even though I hadn’t touched a single drop of champagne. The house was already buzzing when I came downstairs, sunlight spilling across the marble floors, maids bustling to clear the remnants of last night’s late arrival. Father had vanished early—probably to one of his endless meetings—and Mother was nowhere to be seen.

For once, the mansion felt almost normal. Almost.

I sat at the breakfast table, poking at a plate of fruit I didn’t want. The silence in my head was louder than the chatter around me. No music, no crystal clinking, no glittering eyes following my every move. Just me, the distant hum of voices, and… him. Always him.

No matter how many times I pushed the memory away, Damian Rossi’s face kept surfacing in my mind. The steady way he looked at me. The calm that wrapped around him like armor. And the feeling, that strange pull, as though the entire room bent toward him.

I pressed my fork into a slice of melon, harder than necessary. Stop thinking about him.

“Have you heard?” a hushed voice drifted from the far side of the dining hall.

I stilled, my fork halfway to my mouth.

Two maids were gathering dishes near the sideboard, whispering to each other in tones they probably thought were too soft to carry. But this house was built for echoes. Their words stretched across the marble like secrets looking for ears.

“They say Mr. Rossi bought another company,” the younger maid breathed, eyes wide. “One of those tech startups in Milan. Paid double what it was worth—just to crush the competitors.”

The older maid snorted softly. “That’s nothing. My cousin works at the Rossi Hotel. She swears he never smiles. Just walks through the halls, and people step aside like he’s carrying death on his shoulders.”

I froze, every nerve alert.

“Death?” the younger one asked, almost giggling. “You make him sound like a monster.”

“Maybe he is,” the older replied, lowering her voice further. “Do you know how his father died?”

The younger shook her head.

“They say it was the Morettis,” the woman whispered, darting a glance toward the doorway as though my father might appear. “Back when you were still in school. There was a war between families—blood spilled in the streets. Marco Rossi didn’t survive it. His wife, too. Damian was left alone, barely more than a boy.”

The younger maid’s hands stilled on the silver tray. “And now he’s… what? A king?”

“A king of ashes,” the older muttered. “He built an empire on the ruins his father left. But don’t be fooled. Men who rise from fire carry the fire with them. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him when he decides someone has to burn.”

My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering against the porcelain plate. Both women jumped, their heads whipping toward me in horror.

I stared back, my pulse racing. “Don’t stop on my account,” I said flatly, though my voice betrayed the tremor beneath it.

They both bowed their heads quickly, mumbling apologies before hurrying from the room with their trays. The silence that followed pressed in like a weight.

A king of ashes.

The words curled in my mind like smoke.

I shoved my chair back, abandoning the untouched breakfast. My feet carried me through the halls on instinct, but my thoughts were a storm. Damian’s name was everywhere lately—on lips, in whispers, painted in fear. Yet the man I’d seen last night hadn’t looked like a monster. He hadn’t looked broken, either.

No, Damian Rossi had looked whole. Too whole. As though he’d taken every wound, every betrayal, and turned it into steel.

And he had looked at me like he already owned me.

By midday, I found myself wandering through the garden, the autumn air crisp against my skin. The roses were still in bloom, their blood-red petals too vivid, too alive. I sank onto a stone bench, hugging my arms around myself.

For as long as I could remember, the Moretti name had been both a crown and a chain. Father said it meant power, respect, security. To me, it meant walls. It meant being told where to stand, how to smile, who to avoid.

But no one had ever warned me about Damian Rossi—until now.

I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, letting the gossip replay in my mind. A boy who lost his parents. A man who rose from fire. Ruthless. Dangerous. A king of ashes.

Was that why my father hated him so much? Was that why he warned me not to even think about him? Because deep down, Father knew Damian was stronger than him?

A chill ran through me.

“Elena!”

I flinched, sitting upright. One of my friends, Sofia, strolled toward me, her heels clicking on the stone path. She was dressed for an afternoon lunch, her designer bag swinging casually at her side.

“You disappeared after the gala last night,” she said, plopping down beside me. “I thought maybe you’d run off with someone scandalous.”

I gave her a flat look. “Hardly.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Oh, come on. I saw the way Damian Rossi was staring at you.”

Heat shot through me, and I turned my gaze sharply to the roses. “You imagined it.”

“I don’t think so,” Sofia teased, leaning closer. “The whole ballroom noticed. And honestly? I don’t blame him. If Damian Rossi looked at me like that, I’d already be picking out wedding dresses.”

I groaned. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Of course. I hear opportunity.” She smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “He’s rich, powerful, terrifying in the best possible way. You’d be set for life.”

“Or dead by next week,” I muttered.

Sofia laughed, unconcerned. “You’re too dramatic. The worst thing a man like that can do is love you too much.”

But her words didn’t ease the knot in my chest. Because even if I denied it, even if I scolded her, a part of me wondered what it would mean—what it would feel like—to be loved by a man like Damian Rossi.

Loved, or possessed.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was quiet, but my mind was louder than ever. I paced my room, replaying every look, every whisper, every word.

Father’s warning.

The servants’ gossip.

Sofia’s teasing.

And Damian’s voice, smooth as silk, speaking my name as though it belonged to him.

“Elena.”

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself.

Somehow, I knew this wasn’t the end. Damian Rossi wasn’t a man who brushed shoulders at a gala and vanished into memory. He was a man who moved with purpose.

And I was afraid—terrified, even—that his purpose had something to do with me.

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