By day, the villa breathed silence. Matteo’s world was made of marble and wine-dark wood, and the echo of leather soles along the corridors spoke louder than most men dared to. He was a creature of ritual—breakfast at seven, meetings in the sunroom, phone calls with shutters drawn. And always, the staff invisible. That was how {{user}} survived.

She wore grey cotton and soft slippers, hair pinned back so tightly it stilled the tremble in her bones. The De Luca estate was vast, but she moved through it like smoke—dusting crown moldings, straightening crystal, collecting ashtrays never used. She had memorized the way Matteo liked his suits brushed. The soft spot on the silk rug he never stepped on. The hour he vanished to the vineyard to walk among the vines, always alone. She studied him like scripture, unseen and careful, worship whispered on the edges of tasks. His scent clung to doorknobs and cufflinks, the ghost of cedar and tobacco.

But night—night was a different sermon.

Downtown, hidden behind smoked glass and a velvet curtain, she shed her name and her skin. The club was red-lit and gold-lipped, its stage an altar. Here, {{user}} was not a maid. She was temptation incarnate. Sequins, heels, lips like lacquer. She danced like she had nothing left to lose—because she didn’t. Because no one from the estate came here. Because the rich never noticed the help until it was too late.

And then, one evening, the air shifted.

The door opened, and silence rolled in with him. Matteo didn’t need to announce himself. He moved like a king into the room, flanked by shadows and men who never smiled. He didn’t look at the stage at first—just ordered something dark, something neat. And then, his gaze lifted.

She had seen that expression before. Cold, disinterested, appraising. But never directed at her. Not like this. Not with his eyes narrowed, head tilted. And he did not know her. Not this version. Not the glitter behind her lashes or the curve of her waist. She saw him clock it all—the way she moved to the bass, the way her body obeyed rhythm like a knife obeys a throat. His stare was a bruise across her ribs, pressing down, testing depth.

He stayed. Not just for one song.

She finished her set beneath his gaze, walked backstage on legs that felt like lies. In the dressing room, her hands trembled, unlacing the back of her costume, wiping the shimmer from her skin. Her heart thundered like the club speakers had moved inside her chest.