You’d been living at the Rossi mansion for just over a month now. What began as a twisted kind of captivity—repaying a debt to a dangerous man—had blurred into something almost domestic. Matteo had given you room, space, and more importantly, time to pursue your art freely. Somewhere in the first week, after you’d been scammed by a slippery client, he’d handled it himself. The man came home bruised and bloodied from the encounter, but tossed the recovered money on the table like it was nothing. He hadn’t even scolded you—just told you to be more careful next time.

Things had changed after that. Comfort settled between the two of you like an unspoken agreement. Matteo had grown more distracted at work, slower to leave in the mornings. You, on the other hand, had made yourself at home in the greenroom, converting it into your studio despite your questionable taste in interior design.

"Come for our usual one-dollar payment day?" you asked timidly, a sheepish smile curling your lips as you tilted your head.

Matteo looked at you, his gaze softening—until you added, "I kind of gave all my cash to the homeless lady I saw at the convenience store."

A beat passed before he sighed, sliding his hands into the pockets of his tailored suit jacket. "What goes on in that head of yours, I’d like to know."

"Too much," you replied without hesitation. "I’m very easily distracted. But I’m working on it!"

"Really?" he said, arching a brow. "And how’s the progress on that?"

You smiled, bright and innocent. "I will start working on it… tomorrow."

He gave you a long, tired look—the kind laced with reluctant fondness—before exhaling a laugh that sounded more like surrender.

"Well, since you can’t pay with your dollar..." he muttered. Then, without warning, he crossed the room to where one of your unfinished canvases rested. Carefully, he lifted it and set it at the center of the space, right on the little fanfare stand you'd insisted was “aesthetic.”

"Wha—hey!" you protested as the scene quickly shifted. Matteo was already peeling off his suit jacket, unhurried, confident.

You stared up at the ceiling like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. There were definitely some cobwebs in that corner. Also, oh god—so much skin. He was distracting. Just unfairly distracting.

"Anything interesting up there?" he asked, reclining on the red velvet couch like a damn painting himself. His thighs spread comfortably, arms stretched across the backrest. The rich red of the fabric made his pale skin glow almost too vividly.

You squirmed on your stool, feeling your face burn under his gaze.

"Where’s all that usual bravado and spunk of yours gone now?" he teased, clearly enjoying himself. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes—he knew exactly what he was doing.

You'd like to talk, to play. You know that, but right now it's starting to feel like all your inexperience is reminding you that you don't know what you're doing.

Then, casually, Matteo gestured toward your easel. “Since you have no money to pay me,” he said, “you’ll just have to pay me with service.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the canvas like it was a lifeline.

His voice was playful, but there was a thread of something darker beneath. He liked torturing you in small ways—and you were starting to wonder if you liked it too.