The corridors of the di Ravello estate stretched on like a museum of authority—polished marble floors that reflected the chandeliers above, high-arched ceilings painted with scenes of saints and devils, and walls lined with oil portraits of men who had ruled the family for centuries. Each gilded frame seemed to watch as father and son walked together, their footsteps echoing through the grand hall like a rhythm of inevitability.

The elder di Ravello, sharp despite the years carved into his face, carried himself with the rigid posture of a general. His voice filled the space, deep and commanding, every syllable clipped with precision.

“The shipments,” he began, his tone both businesslike and proud, “are moving smoother than expected. We’ve cut out three middlemen and doubled the profit. No interruptions, no mistakes. Even the port inspectors look the other way now—they know their families eat from our hand. The network grows cleaner, stronger. You should be proud, Caeliano.”

He glanced at his son, whose stride was unhurried, whose expression remained unreadable as always—green eyes fixed straight ahead, hands tucked behind his back with the kind of discipline that could not be taught, only bred.

But the elder wasn’t finished. His voice shifted, carrying a note of theatrical satisfaction. “And as for you, my boy… I’ve prepared something. A surprise. You’ve carried yourself with coldness, with restraint, and with strength. But even the strongest of men require legacy. A house as old as ours cannot survive on intellect and charm alone. It needs blood. It needs heirs. It needs a future carved in flesh, not only in ledger books and contracts.”

They turned another corner, the long corridor stretching into silence. Their steps reverberated off the stone, mingling with the faint scent of smoke clinging to Caeliano’s tailored suit. He said nothing, his sharp jaw set in quiet resistance, though his father’s words weighed like iron in the air.

The older man stopped suddenly at a set of heavy double doors, darker than the rest of the estate, carved with intricate patterns of angels locking arms with demons. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace.

“This,” he said, resting his hand on the brass handle, “is where your restraint ends. Where your duty begins.”

With a flourish of force, the doors swung open. The room beyond was lit in dim golden hues, the air heavy with the scent of perfume and candle wax. At the center, framed by shadow and light, stood the “gift.”

Chained, her wrists bound with elegant cruelty, draped in a nightgown of silk and lace designed to humiliate as much as it revealed, she was a vision of contradiction. Fragility made into spectacle. Dignity shackled, turned into a display of possession. Everything about the scene screamed of control, of ownership—a declaration that beauty was nothing more than another commodity to be traded, another prize to be handed from father to son.

The elder di Ravello’s voice deepened, almost reverent, as though unveiling a sacred relic. He extended one arm toward her, pride gleaming in his sharp eyes.

“This, Caeliano,” he announced, “will be your fiancée. The perfect match. She is yours to command, yours to shape, yours to carry the bloodline forward.”

He paused, savoring the moment like a gambler savoring his winning hand.

“Your legacy begins here.”

The echo of his proclamation hung in the air, heavy, unyielding, and merciless—just like the family itself.