Ana stood in front of the full-length mirror in Hayden's penthouse bathroom, buttoning his crisp white shirt around her still-bruised skin. The collar swallowed her neck, the cuffs fell over her hands, but what bothered her most was the faint mark on her collarbone—his mark.
A bite, a bruise, a brand.
Proof.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
Everything felt too loud, even in silence. Her mind swirled with echoes of last night—his voice, his touch, the way her name had left his lips like both a weapon and a prayer. Her body had betrayed her, melted for him, *ached* for him.
But her mind?
Her mind screamed *run*.
She emerged from the bathroom to find him standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned, shirtless, muscles tight with tension. The city of Rome glittered beneath them, oblivious to the war raging in her chest.
"Do you always disappear after you break someone?" she asked, voice cold.
He didn't turn around. "If I broke you, you wouldn't be standing."
Ana's fists clenched. "That's not an answer."
Hayden finally turned. His eyes were unreadable.
"I needed space."
"Is that what you call it?" She moved closer, anger flaring beneath her skin. "Because to me, it looked a lot like guilt."
He laughed, low and bitter. "Guilt? No, Ana. I don't feel guilt."
"Then what do you feel?" she demanded. "Because one minute you're touching me like I'm the only thing you've ever needed, and the next you're acting like I'm disposable!"
"I never said you were disposable."
"But you made me part of your *revenge*! You built this whole twisted fantasy around destroying my family, and somehow I'm supposed to—what? Fall in love with you in the middle of it?"
His jaw flexed.
"You already have."
Ana went still. The words hit her like a slap.
"Don't say that."
"It's true," he said, stepping closer. "You hate it, but it's true. You feel something for me. That's why you're still here."
Her voice was raw. "I'm here because I don't have a choice."
Hayden's expression darkened. "Everyone has a choice. Even you. You could've run when I kissed you. You could've screamed last night. But you didn't. You moaned my name."
"Don't twist this," she snapped. "I was vulnerable. Confused."
"You were *honest*," he countered. "For the first time since you walked into my world."
He reached for her then, his fingers brushing her hip.
Ana stepped back.
"Don't."
His voice dropped. "Do you regret it?"
She swallowed hard.
"I regret trusting you."
Silence. Heavy and cold.
He turned away again, shoulders tense. "You don't trust anyone. Not even yourself."
"Maybe that's because I'm starting to see you for what you really are."
"Then see me," Hayden snapped, spinning to face her. "I'm not pretending to be a hero. I'm not the man you imagined when you painted all those pretty things. I'm the darkness you were never supposed to touch—but you *did*. And now it's in you."
Ana blinked back sudden tears. "You're right. You're not a hero. You're a monster wearing a suit."
"And you," he said, voice like steel, "are the only one who's ever made the monster bleed."
Her breath hitched.
Because in that moment, she realized something terrifying.
He wasn't lying.
Hayden Moretti had murdered men with his bare hands, orchestrated empires of violence—but the way he looked at her now, wounded and possessive, it was *real*.
And she didn't know what was worse: hating him, or wanting him anyway.
She turned to leave.
"I need to go," she whispered.
"Where?"
"Out. Away from you. Away from this." She motioned to the apartment—the glass, the gold, the ghost of last night clinging to the sheets.
Hayden moved in front of the door before she could reach it. His body blocked her path, tall and immovable.
"You're not leaving."
Her jaw clenched. "Try and stop me."
His eyes flickered—dark, furious, *afraid*. She saw it for a flash beneath the cold exterior: the panic of a man who had finally tasted something real and was now watching it slip away.
"I told you," he said. "You're mine."
She stared at him. "That isn't love, Hayden. That's possession."
He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. "Then what's the difference… when you crave it too?"
Her chest rose and fell in sharp breaths. Her hand gripped the door handle.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't decide if she wanted to run or pull him to her again.
But before she could choose, his phone buzzed on the table.
He turned away to check it—and in that heartbeat of distraction, she opened the door and walked out.
Not fast.
But steady.
Because she needed to breathe.
To think.
To remember who she was before Hayden Moretti.
And maybe… to figure out if she still wanted to be that girl at all.