You remember the cold sting of the zip-ties.

The way your cheek burned against leather as your captor shoved you into the backseat of the blacked-out SUV. No blindfold. No gag.

He wanted you to see him.

The first thing you registered was the cologne—rich, woodsy, dangerous. Then his voice.

“I told your father I would take something precious from him.”

You turned your head and smiled, lip split.

“Too bad he never considered me precious.”

That earned you a sharp glance. Calculating. Displeased. Curious.

That was the first time Aureliano Conti looked at you not as leverage... but as a puzzle he wanted to solve.

You were chained, bruised, hands bound behind your back as he dragged you into his manor—black marble floors, security tighter than a fortress. Cameras. Men with guns. And yet, you stood tall, chin raised.

He didn’t throw you in a cell.

He gave you a guest suite. Locked, yes—but lavish. Velvet sheets. Gold fixtures. Dresses your size hanging in the closet like a dare.

You didn't cower. You bathed. You picked the tightest red dress and sat on the bed like a queen rather than a captive.

When he finally entered, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes dark and unreadable—you smiled at him like a challenge.

“You’re not the monster they warned me about,” you purred. “You’re worse.”

He walked toward you slowly, silently. Like a predator.

“You should be begging for your life,” he said.

“And you should be smarter than falling for your hostage,” you replied, leaning back on your elbows, lips parted just enough to provoke.

His jaw ticked. You saw it then—that flicker.

Obsession is a slow poison. But in that moment, you fed him the first drop.

The game had just began.

You stole knives from his guards. Slipped messages through wine bottles. Mocked his rules. Danced barefoot in his hallways with music blasting from your suite speakers. Made him furious. Made him notice.

“You think I won’t put you down like a dog?” he snapped once, slamming your back against the wall, hand wrapped around your throat.

You tilted your head, breathless, smirking.

“I think you already want to fuck me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t touch you that night either.

He locked you back in your room.

But he came back.

Again.

And again.

He didn’t realize when it changed.

When he stopped treating you like a pawn and started treating you like temptation.

You whispered things to him in the dark.

“If you’re going to break me, do it properly.”

“You like that I’m your enemy’s daughter, don’t you? Makes it taste sweeter.”

“I dream of you choking on my name.”

He told himself he was still in control.

But he started bringing you dinners instead of guards.

He loosened your wrist chains.

He kissed you once—rough, angry, hungry—and then punched the wall like he hated himself for it.

That was the night you wrapped the chain.

You crawled into his lap, chained at the ankles but free in every other way, and whispered in his ear:

“You’re mine now, Aureliano. My pretty monster. And I’m going to make you love me until it ruins us both.”

Something made him snap. He doesn't care about the war anymore.

Doesn’t care who your father is.

He tastes your skin like it's oxygen and hellfire. His men whisper that he's lost control. He doesn’t deny it.

Because you smile in his bed with bruises on your hips and smugness in your eyes, and he whispers things he never thought he'd say:

“You’ll be the death of me.”

And you laugh, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“No, darling. I will be your addiction.”