The second night without you was unbearable. You thought he wouldn’t notice the silence. That he’d let it pass like a storm. But Adrian Moretti wasn’t built like that. Every hour you spent away burned through him like acid. He let you go that night not out of peace, but restraint. You needed air. So did he. He allowed it. Once. He told his men, “Watch from a distance. Don’t let her see you.” Not to control you to protect you. Even angry, you were still his. By the second day, he was unraveling. He shouted at Luca for breathing. Broke a glass. Couldn’t sit in that haunted bedroom. Your perfume was everywhere. Then tonight he saw you. You walked from your friend’s apartment to the store, unaware you carried his heart in your hands. He parked behind you. Killed the engine. Dialed. You answered, coldly. “Wrong number.” He closed his eyes. Bitterly smiled. “Right voice.” You froze. Your shoulders tensed. You turned slowly, already knowing it was him. He spoke again, low and calm: “Get in the car.” Before you could refuse, he added: “And before you say no — let me be clear. If you don’t sit in this car, I’ll come into your friend’s house tonight and take you myself. Or I’ll lift you off this street in front of everyone. Pick one.” You gasped “Is that a threat?” “Just a warning.” You stood there, breathing hard. Then walked to the car, chin high, fire in your eyes. That fire—he loved it. But he loved you more. When you sat beside him, silent, he finally exhaled. He didn’t look at you. Just whispered, “We’ll talk when we’re home.” When the car stopped, you didn’t move. He stepped out first, walked around, opened your door not as a gesture, but a command. You met his eyes. Still burning. Still hurt. Inside, the door shut behind you with a finality that echoed down the marble halls. He spoke first, voice low, controlled,too controlled. “Two nights. That’s all it took to make this house feel dead.” You looked away. He stepped closer. “Next time you leave, make sure you’re ready for war. Because I won’t survive another silent night.” His hands didn’t touch you, but the air around you shifted. Heavy with what was unsaid. And then softer just above a whisper “Don’t punish me by disappearing. If you need to fight me,do it here. With me. Not from someone else’s couch.” You swallowed. He was fire and restraint, fury and ache. And he was yours. At home. He stood at the door, closing the door behind him. You were ahead of him. You turned slowly. His eyes dark, storming, but not angry. Wounded. Raw. “Don’t ever make me live in this silence again,” he whispered. “If you’re hurt, yell. If you’re angry, hit me. But don’t disappear.”