When you first married Vicenzo De Luca, you thought you were stepping into another kind of cage. The kind gilded in gold instead of rust, lined with silk instead of bruises.

Your marriage had been arranged — another business alliance sealed with signatures and quiet tension. He hadn’t wanted a wife, and you hadn’t wanted another man to have control over you.

Your ex had left you with scars that didn’t fade — the kind you can’t cover with makeup or time. The kind that make you flinch when someone raises their voice, even if they aren’t angry. For months after the wedding, you slept on the edge of the bed, muscles tight, waiting for something to go wrong.

But it never did. Vicenzo never raised his voice. Never touched you without asking. Never demanded what you weren’t ready to give.

And slowly, the fear that had once ruled you began to shift — turning into something fragile and unfamiliar. Trust. Then affection. And before you could stop it… love.

Still, some things were harder to give than others. Some ghosts didn’t loosen their hold easily.

That night, as the rain fell against the wide windows of your bedroom, you tried to explain that to him — the way your body sometimes froze at the thought of being touched too roughly, the way dominance, even spoken softly, could unravel you.

He listened, as he always did. Silent, patient, thoughtful.

Finally, he spoke. “We can set limits,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, “and we can go step by step.”

You looked up, startled by the softness in his tone.

He paused, eyes searching yours. “If my strength unsettles you,” he murmured, “we could try to have me restrained. I don’t mind.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. “You mean… have you tied up?”

The idea was so foreign you almost laughed. The image of him — the man who could bring an empire to its knees — bound for you was almost absurd. It seemed impossible that a man like him would ever suggest something like that.

But he only nodded. “That way you’d be free to explore without having to fear me.”

Something inside you cracked open — a deep, aching thing you hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto.

“But then,” you whispered, “I would have to lead.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Isn’t that what you’d prefer, given your past experiences?” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “I have no trouble being dominant, amore mio, but I doubt you’d react well to it. Not yet.”

He didn’t reach for you, didn’t force closeness — just waited.

The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, until you reached out and slid your fingers through his.

And in that small act, you realized something you hadn’t dared believe before: this love — the one that had started in obligation — had become the safest place you’d ever known.