#power dynamics in fantasy

[joncronshawauthor]

Colonial Themes in Fantasy: A Deeper Look

Fantasy has long engaged with themes of conquest and resistance, from Tolkien’s hobbits facing industrialisation to modern works exploring the complexities of empire and colonisation. As I wrote The Knight and the Rebel, I became deeply immersed in these themes, examining both the machinery of conquest and the human cost of resistance. The Colonial Narrative in Fantasy Colonial narratives in…

[twistedheartsclub]

Dark King A Dark Romance Male x Female Reader PT1

⚠️ Trigger Warning (TW): This story contains dark themes that include psychological manipulation, coercion, dubious consent (dubcon), non-consensual sexual situations (noncon), possessive behavior, and kidnapping in later chapters. Please note: Part One of this story does not contain these elements and focuses on character introductions, emotional tension, and slow-burn development. These sensitive topics are introduced gradually and are part of a fictional narrative intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please prioritize your mental and emotional well-being.

The Romano estate was too quiet.

Y/N adjusted her blazer, smoothed down her skirt, and stared up at the wrought-iron gates that looked more like they belonged to a fortress than a family home. Twisting, thorned vines crawled up the stone pillars on either side, their shadows curling like fingers in the early afternoon sun. The guard at the booth barely looked at her as he waved her through, his sharp eyes darting to the back of her car as if expecting it to explode.

She swallowed and drove forward.

She hadn't wanted this job. She'd stared at the Romano name on the inquiry email for a full five minutes before even opening it. A big name. A dangerous name. The kind of name whispered behind hands and buried in gossip, tangled up in words like “untouchable” and “blood money.”

But two years of scraping by as a wedding planner in a city that chewed up dreams and spit out bones meant she couldn’t afford to be picky. And maybe, just maybe, if she pulled this off—if she gave Celia Romano the perfect fairytale wedding—it would change everything.

Her nerves didn’t care about the potential. They crawled beneath her skin like ants.

The driveway twisted through perfectly manicured grounds, but it didn’t feel like a garden. It felt like a warning. Like she was being watched. And when the mansion came into view, it wasn’t some romantic villa—it was sleek and brutal, stone and glass and steel, like a wolf dressed in silk.

A man in a dark suit opened her car door before she’d even unbuckled. Silent. Professional. Terrifying.

“Miss Y/N L/N?” he asked, voice clipped.

She nodded, mouth dry. “Yes.”

“Follow me.”

Inside, the mansion was colder than she expected. All marble floors and high ceilings, gilded mirrors, fresh lilies that couldn’t quite mask the scent of gunpowder and leather. Opulence pressed in on all sides, but so did something else—danger in a tailored suit.

And then she saw him.

He stepped out from the shadows of a wide, columned hallway like he belonged there—like the house had been built around him. Matteo Romano. She recognized him instantly from the research she’d done the night before, the grainy newspaper shots that never quite captured the full weight of him.

He was taller in person, broad-shouldered with the kind of presence that bent the air around him. His suit was charcoal, his shirt black, no tie. Everything about him was understated, yet lethal—like a knife wrapped in velvet.

And those eyes—god, those eyes. A smoldering, iron-gray stare that pinned her in place like a butterfly under glass.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and low, “you’re the girl planning my sister’s wedding.”

Y/N lifted her chin, despite the way her stomach twisted. “Woman. And yes, I am.”

One dark brow ticked upward. Not amusement, not quite. Interest, maybe. Or curiosity—like he was watching a stray cat wander into a lion’s den, wondering if it would fight or flee.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t want this job.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d be the right fit. But your sister was insistent.”

“She was,” he agreed, gaze dragging over her face like a touch. “Celia likes… shiny things. Pretty things. She must’ve seen something she liked.”

His words were simple, but the way he said them wasn’t. There was a weight behind every syllable, as if each word was a hook meant to lodge deep and pull.

Y/N refused to look away. “I’m not a thing, Mr. Romano.”

“Matteo,” he corrected. “And I never said you were. But let’s be honest, Y/N. You’re standing in the center of a viper’s nest in five-inch heels and pretending you don’t feel the fangs.”

“I’m here to do a job. Nothing more.”

He smiled, slow and dark and absolutely without warmth.

“We’ll see.”

“Come, let’s sit,” Celia said, looping her arm through Y/N’s as if they were old friends instead of strangers from very different worlds.

She was beautiful—effortlessly so. Delicate features, wide brown eyes, long dark hair pulled back in a silk ribbon that matched the blush of her designer dress. She practically glowed, the golden youngest of the Romano children, and she moved through the marble halls like she owned the sun.

Y/N let herself be led into what looked like a sitting room but felt more like a museum. Velvet cushions. Heavy tapestries. Portraits of dead men with eyes that seemed to follow you. Everything was curated, gilded, expensive.

Celia flopped onto a tufted sofa with an easy smile. “Tea or wine?”

“Tea, thank you,” Y/N said, smoothing her skirt as she sat on the edge of the opposite cushion. “We should go over some basics before we get into design—budget, guest list, location. I like to get the skeleton in place before we start dressing it up.”

Celia grinned. “You’re serious. I like that.”

“I try to be,” Y/N said, pulling out her planner. “Weddings are like symphonies. A lot of moving pieces. If one part is off, the whole thing—”

“Crashes in fire and flames,” said a voice from the doorway, dry and rich like aged wine. “God help us, another metaphor girl.”

Y/N stood quickly, her breath catching.

A woman entered the room in a cloud of perfume and pearls. Her dress was immaculate. Hair swept into a flawless chignon, eyes sharp enough to cut stone. Older, elegant, terrifying. This had to be Viviana Romano, Celia’s mother.

Behind her shuffled another woman—stooped slightly, skin papery, hair pure white. But her eyes… those eyes were sharper than the mother���s. The grandmother. The matriarch.

Celia rose, kissing each on the cheek. “Mama. Nonna. This is Y/N L/N, our planner.”

“Planner,” the grandmother echoed, eyeing Y/N like a hawk might a field mouse. “Skinny. Too young. Why did we hire a girl?”

Y/N forced a smile. “Thank you for having me. I assure you, I’m qualified.”

Viviana stepped closer, examining her like she was a piece of artwork that might be a forgery. “You’ve done high society before?”

“Yes. A few events in Manhattan and a destination wedding in Florence. Small budgets, but high-end vision. I specialize in creating elegance without waste.”

“Waste,” the grandmother said with a snort. “Weddings are waste. But they make men spend money, and that is always amusing.”

“Nonna,” Celia warned gently.

Y/N kept her smile in place. “I believe weddings are statements. Not just about love, but legacy. A family’s image. Their name.”

At that, Viviana’s interest piqued. “You understand legacy?”

“I do,” Y/N said, voice steady. “And how fragile it can be in the wrong hands.”

Silence fell.

Celia’s eyes danced with quiet admiration.

The grandmother smiled, just barely. “Hm. Not as soft as she looks.”

Viviana hummed. “We’ll see. Sit, then. Let’s talk about the wedding. Matteo says you’re professional. I want to know if he’s right.”

Y/N sat again, spine straight, pen poised. “Of course.”

But even as she started her questions—flowers, colors, catering—the weight of three generations of Romanos pressing in on her made every word feel like walking across a tightrope. One wrong move, one crack in her voice, and she’d fall.

Still, she didn’t come this far to be afraid of sharp women with old money and sharper eyes.

She just had to survive the planning.

And Matteo.

God help her—especially Matteo.

The family had eventually dispersed—Viviana off to a charity meeting, Nonna to her garden, and with the room cleared of its frost, Celia had pulled Y/N into a sunlit parlor tucked at the back of the house. It was cozier than the others, with warm wood bookshelves, velvet pillows in soft rose and gold, and a faint smell of cinnamon and old paper. A forgotten corner of the Romano estate.

Sanctuary.

Celia was barefoot now, her heels discarded by the door, legs curled under her on a tufted chair as she sipped herbal tea. She’d softened, the tension from earlier fading with every minute away from her mother’s judging gaze.

“I like this room,” Y/N said, running her fingers along the edge of a worn side table. “It doesn’t feel like the rest of the house.”

“It isn’t,” Celia said with a smile. “It was my father’s mother’s room. No one comes in here but me.” She leaned forward, chin in her hand. “Okay, now that you’ve survived the she-wolves, tell me everything.”

Y/N blinked. “Everything?”

“About you,” Celia said, grinning. “You’re not some uptight planner like I expected. You’ve got a bite. I want to know what you’re doing in this mess.”

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not that interesting.”

“I doubt that.”

She hesitated a moment, then sighed and sat on the arm of the couch. “Alright. I’ve been doing this for two years. I started in Manhattan, assisting a nightmare planner who believed crying was weakness and coffee was currency. Eventually I branched off, made my own little company.”

“And your boyfriend?” Celia asked slyly.

Y/N flushed immediately. “How do you know I—?”

“You blushed when my brother looked at you.”

“Oh my god,” Y/N groaned, hiding her face. “That’s not because of—Matteo—it’s just—he’s intimidating, and the way he looks at people feels like he’s reading their last will and testament.”

Celia laughed, delighted. “So you do have someone.”

Y/N smiled despite herself, cheeks still warm. “Yeah. We’ve been together for a year now. We live separately—he’s a little older. Travels a lot for work, so we do what we can.”

“What does he do?”

Y/N hesitated, picking at a thread on her skirt. “Something with logistics. Imports, I think. I never ask too many questions when it comes to his work—it’s not shady or anything, just… dull. He’s sweet. Stable.”

“Safe,” Celia said softly.

Y/N looked up. “Yeah. Safe.”

Celia stared out the window for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup. “My fiancé isn’t.”

Y/N blinked. “You don’t love him?”

“No,” Celia said simply. “I don’t even know if I like him.”

The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said gently. “Is it arranged?”

Celia nodded. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. It’s... strategic. He’s from a family that benefits ours. Keeps peace, solidifies business. My father promised me when I was seventeen. I’ve met him a few times. He’s polite. Handsome. Dangerous, in that quiet way men like him are.”

“Do you get a choice?” Y/N asked.

“Not really. But I pretend I do.” Celia offered a small, tired smile. “Mama says it’s my duty. Matteo… he tries to protect me. But he’s part of it too. He knows what this marriage means for the family.”

Y/N felt something tighten in her chest. She didn’t know Celia well—this was only their first real conversation—but there was something heartbreakingly human in the way she said it, like she’d already accepted her life was not her own.

“You still get to have your day, though,” Y/N said softly. “And I’ll make it beautiful. For you. Not just them.”

Celia’s smile warmed, this time real and glowing. “I knew I liked you.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a while after that. Two women from opposite worlds, sitting in a room full of ghosts.

Y/N's apartment smelled like garlic, rosemary, and freshly baked bread.

The tiny dining table was crowded with mismatched plates, wine glasses half-full of red, and candles flickering against the soft hum of music playing from her phone. Her heels were off, hair down, and for the first time all day, her shoulders weren’t trying to touch her ears.

“Okay,” said Jade, stabbing a fork into a roasted potato. “You went to the Romano estate and lived to tell the tale. Spill.”

“I’m not gossiping,” Y/N warned, pouring another splash of wine into her glass. “It was a professional meeting.”

“Yeah, and I wear Chanel to the gym,” Maya snorted, popping a grape tomato into her mouth. “Come on, Y/N. Give us something.”

Y/N laughed, leaning back against the cushions. “It was... intense. The house is like a fortress. There are guards. Real ones. With actual guns. Matteo Romano—he’s the brother—he showed up out of nowhere like he was summoned by shadows or something.”

“Oh my god,” Jade breathed. “Is he hot?”

Y/N covered her face. “I’m not answering that.”

“Oh, he is,” Maya cackled. “She’s blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.” Jade topped off her wine. “What’d he say? Was he mean? Did he try to test you?”

Y/N sighed. “He’s... sharp. Cold. But not unkind, if that makes sense. He just watches people like he’s figuring out what they’re worth.”

“Like a mob boss would,” Maya added. “You’re literally planning a wedding for mafia royalty.”

“They’re not openly mafia,” Y/N said quickly, lowering her voice.

“They don’t have to be,” Jade teased. “Their aura screams blood and black card.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. “Celia—the bride—is sweet. She’s young. Kind of lonely, I think. Her mother and grandmother were…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Strong. A little terrifying.”

“And you, my darling,” Jade said, raising her glass, “handled it like the badass you are.”

They clinked glasses and sipped. The conversation drifted, wine loosening their shoulders and smoothing the edges of the day.

“So,” Maya said after a while, eyes narrowing with playful intent, “how’s your man?”

Y/N smirked, lips still on her glass. “Still sweet. Still boring.”

“Hey, boring can be good,” Jade grinned. “My man cooked for me last night and folded the laundry. Boring is sexy.”

“Mine bought me bath salts,” Maya said dreamily. “And then ran the bath. Naked.”

“Okay,” Y/N groaned with a laugh. “Too much.”

Jade pointed at her. “But your guy? He still doing the import-export thing?”

“Yeah. He’s been in Texas for a week. Work trip. I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“Do you miss him?”

Y/N hesitated. “Yeah. I do.”

The words felt true—but light. Like she was reaching for a sweater that no longer fit quite right. Her boyfriend was kind, thoughtful, consistent. But sometimes when she closed her eyes, she saw Matteo Romano’s storm-gray stare and felt like someone had opened a window in her chest and let the cold wind in.

“He’s good to me,” she added, more firmly.

“That’s what matters,” Jade said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “He makes you feel safe.”

Y/N smiled and nodded, taking another sip of wine. But her stomach turned a little—not in dread, but in confusion.

Safe.

Was that enough?

The Romano dining room was as grand as it was suffocating.

Thick velvet curtains muted the night beyond the windows, candlelight flickering across crystal and bone china. The long table was set to perfection, but no amount of gold trim or hand-stitched linen could mask the tension hanging in the air like smoke.

“Her guest list is ridiculous,” Viviana snapped, swirling her wine. “She wants influencers. Influencers, Matteo. I won’t have our name associated with women who take selfies in backless dresses and call it branding.”

“She’s young,” Matteo replied, voice calm but clipped. “Let her be young. She’ll only have this wedding once.”

“Don’t be naive,” Nonna said, her voice brittle but strong. “If she marries a man she doesn’t love, she’ll survive the wedding, not remember it. She’s not built for our world. She’s too soft.”

“She’s a Romano,” Matteo said, gaze fixed ahead. “She’ll learn.”

Across from him, Celia picked at her salad in silence, her lashes low, pretending not to listen. But he could tell she heard every word—he always knew when his baby sister was hurting, no matter how carefully she masked it.

Viviana sighed sharply. “And that planner she chose. The girl. She’s too young. Too modern. Too plain. We should’ve hired someone seasoned. I don’t trust these independent types—they make decisions based on aesthetic instead of legacy.”

Matteo’s jaw ticked. “Her name is Y/N L/N.”

His mother looked at him, surprised. “You remember her name?”

“I remember everyone’s name.”

Nonna smirked from the head of the table. “She had a spark, that one. Stood up straight even while we tried to gut her. I like her spine.”

“She wore sensible heels,” Celia murmured.

Matteo looked at her. “That’s how she’s survived this long.”

Viviana raised a brow. “You’re defending her?”

“I’m stating facts,” he replied coolly. “She didn’t flinch in a room that most men would’ve folded in. That’s useful.”

He didn’t mention the way her voice had stayed calm under pressure, or the quiet precision of her answers, or the tiny tremble in her fingers that she fought so hard to hide. He didn’t mention the way she’d looked him in the eye—looked, not stared, not simpered—and corrected him.

That had stuck with him. Not like an obsession, not like hunger.

More like a puzzle left half-finished on a table. Something you noticed again and again without meaning to.

“She has a boyfriend,” Celia said suddenly.

That earned a flicker of attention from him. “Does she.”

Celia nodded. “They’ve been together a year. Doesn’t live with him.”

Viviana waved a hand dismissively. “She’s too focused on work. She’ll be married to her career by thirty.”

“That kind of woman doesn’t stay long in this world,” Nonna said, sipping her wine. “They either get eaten, or they become something else.”

Matteo didn’t respond. He reached for his glass, his expression unreadable.

His thoughts weren’t on the wedding anymore. Or the fiancé they’d chosen for Celia. Or the complaints echoing off the crystal.

Instead, they lingered—irritatingly—on a flash of quiet defiance, a sharp tongue in a soft mouth, and a planner who didn’t want to be here… but came anyway.

He wasn’t interested. Not really.

But he’d noticed her.

And in Matteo Romano’s world, that was the beginning of everything.

The second visit to the Romano estate was less terrifying—but only slightly.

Y/N had worn soft beige slacks and a cream blouse this time. Practical. Neat. Safe. Her hair was pinned back with gold clips, her planner tucked tightly beneath one arm as she followed a familiar path to the drawing room where Celia waited.

The door opened before she could knock.

“Y/N!” Celia greeted with a warm smile, hands clasped in excitement. “Come in—we’ve already started without you.”

Inside, sunlight streamed through the tall windows. The table was scattered with samples—lace swatches, invitation mockups, and color palette charts. Celia sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, cheeks pink with enthusiasm, while Viviana and Nonna flanked the table like two marble sentinels, wine glasses untouched but ever present.

“We were debating florals,” Viviana said sharply. “Celia wants peonies.”

“They’re romantic,” Celia argued.

“They’re overpriced and wilt too fast,” Nonna muttered. “Like some husbands.”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Peonies can be used in moderation. Maybe blended with ranunculus and garden roses for durability.”

Viviana arched a brow, but said nothing, merely gesturing for her to sit.

Y/N sank into the cushion beside Celia, laying out her planner and flipping to her sketches. She was mid-sentence—something about table arrangements—when a loud shriek rang through the hallway beyond the open door.

A moment later, two tiny whirlwinds of energy tore into the room.

“Nico!” Celia shouted in warning, too late.

The twins—identical boys with dark curls and matching button-downs—darted past the table, one of them skidding on the marble with socked feet. His little body wobbled, arms flailing, dangerously close to crashing into a glass vase.

Y/N moved on instinct.

She lunged, catching the boy before he could fall. He landed safely against her chest, breathless and blinking, his tiny hands fisting in her blouse.

“Whoa there,” she murmured, her voice soft. “You alright, little guy?”

The boy blinked, stunned for a moment—then grinned. “You’re pretty.”

Celia groaned into her hands. “God, Nico, no flirting.”

Y/N laughed, kneeling with the boy still tucked against her, brushing his curls gently back. “How old are you?”

“Five and three-quarters,” he said proudly. “I’m older than Leo by four minutes!”

His twin, Leo, hovered near the doorway with wide eyes, until Y/N held out her hand and smiled. “You can come too.”

He hesitated, then sprinted across the room and launched himself into her lap.

Viviana made a noise of disapproval, but Nonna only sipped her wine. “You’re good with children.”

“They’re just small people,” Y/N said, bouncing one on each knee. “They just want to be seen.”

Neither woman responded, but their silence was thoughtful.

And that’s when he walked in.

Matteo.

The air shifted instantly.

His footsteps were quiet, but his presence filled the room like thunderclouds rolling in over calm skies. His eyes flicked to the twins, then to Y/N, who hadn’t noticed him yet—her face soft with a tender smile, her body curled protectively around the boys like she’d done it a hundred times.

One of the twins tugged on her sleeve. “Can you come play later?”

“Maybe,” she said gently. “If it’s okay with your family.”

The moment lingered—too long, too still.

Then Y/N looked up.

Her eyes found Matteo’s.

Something passed between them. Not heat. Not tension.

Something quieter. Deeper.

Recognition.

She blinked, straightened a little, gently setting the twins down. “Mr. Romano.”

“Matteo,” he corrected automatically.

Viviana rose, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “They barged in like wild animals. Celia lets them run like strays.”

“They’re children,” Matteo said, his gaze still on Y/N. “They need freedom. And structure.”

Nonna made a low sound of approval. “The girl has both.”

Y/N rose, smoothing her slacks. “They’re sweet. Just curious.”

Matteo stepped closer now, slow, deliberate. He wasn’t watching her the way he had last time—testing her. This was different.

He’d seen something.

Something he didn’t understand yet.

“Celia,” he said without looking away, “let’s move the meeting to the library. Give them more space.”

Celia nodded, but her gaze darted from her brother to Y/N and back again, a spark of interest igniting behind her lashes.

The moment passed.

But Matteo felt it press into the edges of his mind, lingering long after the twins had gone.

She had held them like she’d been born to. Like she belonged in the center of something warm and real.

It wasn’t important.

It shouldn’t matter.

But now, he’d seen her that way.

And Matteo Romano never forgot what he’d seen.

The Romano gardens stretched beyond the back terrace like a secret realm—walled in with towering cypress trees, rose-covered trellises, and gravel paths that led nowhere in particular. Birds chirped lazily in the early afternoon sun, and the air carried the scent of lemon balm and thyme.

Celia had slipped out first, sandals in one hand, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Y/N followed with two tall glasses of ice-cold lemon water, grateful for the excuse to take a break from lace samples and logistics.

They sank onto a shaded bench beneath a wide olive tree, the stone warm beneath their legs, the twins’ laughter echoing faintly from somewhere deeper in the garden.

“They really love you,” Celia said, smiling behind her glass.

“They’re adorable,” Y/N replied. “Wild, but adorable. Who do they belong to?”

“My cousin Enzo’s boys,” Celia said. “He’s one of our older cousins—married young, had twins by accident, got terrified and grew up fast. His wife’s lovely. Quiet. They live on the property, but far enough to pretend they don’t.”

“That sounds… ideal, honestly.”

Celia laughed, a soft sound. “It is. They keep their heads down. Enzo’s smart like that.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks and watching bees dart from flower to flower.

“You’re different from what I expected,” Celia said, finally.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. You’re not… scared. Or fake. Most people who come through here are either terrified of my family or trying to impress them.”

Y/N tilted her glass thoughtfully. “I guess I’m just too tired for either.”

Celia’s smile widened. “I like you. You make this whole thing feel less… hollow.”

Y/N glanced over. “Do you ever get to leave?”

Celia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you ever just… go out? To dinner, or dancing? Coffee with friends?”

“I go to charity events,” Celia said dryly. “And galas. Does that count?”

“Nope.”

Celia sighed. “Then no. Not really. Matteo doesn’t like it.”

“Matteo?” Y/N raised a brow. “Your mom doesn’t like it either, but you didn’t mention her.”

Celia looked down at her glass. “Matteo’s opinion matters more. If he says no, it’s no. He’s not cruel, he’s just… protective. Controlling. He thinks keeping me here keeps me safe.”

Y/N was quiet for a long moment, then reached out and nudged her knee gently. “What if I stole you for a night?”

Celia’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Just you and me. No guards. No designer gowns. We’ll go to this place I love—tiny Greek place near my apartment. We’ll eat too much garlic, drink house wine, and make fun of bad wedding DJs. Maybe even dance a little.”

Celia’s eyes lit up with something like wonder. “You’d do that?”

Y/N shrugged with a smile. “Only if you say yes.”

Celia looked away, biting her lip. “Matteo would hate it.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Celia let out a breathless laugh. “God, you really are trouble.”

“I’m actually very well-behaved,” Y/N said, grinning. “But maybe you need a little trouble.”

Their laughter blended with the wind in the trees, sweet and light—two women stealing a sliver of freedom from a world that demanded they stay in their boxes.

Neither of them saw the figure watching from the terrace—still as stone, unreadable as ever.

Matteo Romano.

He didn’t hear the conversation.

But he saw the way Celia smiled.

The way Y/N leaned toward her, easy and warm, like a summer breeze through a sealed room.

And something cold stirred in his chest—not jealousy. Not yet.

But the quiet, unfamiliar ache of possession.

The little Greek place was tucked between a closed flower shop and an old bookstore that smelled like dust and poetry. Inside, the air was warm and humming with quiet music, and the walls were lined with faded black-and-white photos of Athens. There were only six tables, each covered with mismatched linens and flickering tealights in small glass cups.

They sat near the window, tucked into a corner, half a carafe of house wine between them and plates of lamb skewers, feta, olives, and crispy lemon potatoes spread like a feast.

Celia had pulled her hair into a braid and worn jeans with a fitted cardigan—simple, casual, a soft rebellion in itself. She looked lighter here. Brighter. Like her laugh had been waiting years to be let out.

“This is so good,” she moaned, stealing another wedge of pita. “Why does everything at home taste like it was cooked under threat?”

Y/N laughed, refilling her glass. “Because it probably was.”

“I can’t believe we actually got away with this,” Celia whispered, eyes gleaming.

“I told you—low profile, casual, nothing flashy. We’re just two normal girls out for dinner.”

“I haven’t been a normal girl in years,” Celia said, swirling her wine. “Do you know how many of my firsts were... choreographed?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Like what?”

“My first kiss? At a garden party. My date was the son of a diplomat. Our mothers basically pushed us into a rose bush and gave us ten minutes.” Celia made a face. “He tasted like champagne and fear.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s tragic.”

“What about yours?”

Y/N grinned, tucking her legs under the booth seat. “Seventh grade. Behind the theater building. He had braces and called me the wrong name right after.”

Celia laughed so hard she nearly choked on her wine. “No!”

“Yes! I was too embarrassed to correct him.”

“Oh god, we’re pathetic.”

“Speak for yourself,” Y/N said with a mock huff. “I’m a very romantic person now. I light candles. I make dinner. I am extremely kissable.”

Celia raised her glass. “To being extremely kissable.”

They clinked and sipped again, warm and loose from the wine, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“How old are you, by the way?” Y/N asked. “You never told me.”

“Twenty-six,” Celia said. “What about you?”

“Same.”

Celia smiled. “That explains it. You feel like someone I would’ve been friends with in another life. One where my family didn’t control every detail of my existence.”

“You still can be,” Y/N said softly.

There was a pause, a shift in the air.

Then Celia reached forward and stole another olive. “Okay. Crushes. Who was your first?”

“Oh, easy,” Y/N said. “My fourth-grade art teacher. He had a ponytail and wore leather bracelets. Total hippie. I was convinced he was secretly a prince.”

Celia giggled. “Mine was my cousin’s friend Luca. He used to come over and play piano. I’d sit on the stairs and pretend I wasn’t watching.”

“Did Matteo know?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Matteo knows everything. He told me Luca was a degenerate gambler and forbade me from being in the same room with him.”

Y/N laughed. “Wow. Subtle.”

“He’s always been like that,” Celia said, her smile fading just a little. “He means well, but… his idea of love is protection. Control. He doesn’t understand softness. He respects it, I think. But he doesn’t trust it.”

Y/N stirred her drink slowly, considering that.

“He watched me when I caught Nico,” she said quietly.

Celia looked at her. “I figured.”

“It wasn’t like he was angry. Just… seeing something new.”

“That’s probably true,” Celia said, her tone unreadable. “Matteo doesn’t notice most people. But when he does…” She trailed off.

Y/N looked up. “What?”

“He never forgets them.”

The music was old and loud, thumping through the worn floorboards of the little backroom bar Y/N had promised would be “low-key.”

It wasn’t packed, but it was alive—warm bodies moving in time, a rainbow of lights flashing across upturned faces and bare shoulders. The air was thick with laughter and cheap perfume, and the whole world felt far away from marble floors and legacy-stained bloodlines.

Y/N and Celia were laughing breathlessly, hips swaying, arms linked as they danced near the edge of the floor. The wine had softened their movements, made everything feel lighter. Like being young again—normal.

Celia’s braid swung behind her as she spun. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“I told you,” Y/N said, grinning. “We’re magic when we’re out together.”

“I feel… free.”

Y/N was about to respond when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. A man—mid-thirties, too polished for a place like this. Slicked-back hair. Designer watch. Something sharp behind his smile.

He was watching Celia.

Y/N stiffened as he approached.

“Ladies,” he said smoothly. “Mind if I cut in?”

Celia faltered, smile fading. “I’m fine, thank you—”

“I wasn’t asking you, princess.”

Y/N stepped in front of her without thinking. “Back off.”

The man’s eyes flicked to her, condescending. “Easy. Just trying to be friendly.”

“She said no.”

Something in her tone changed the air between them.

The man leaned in just enough for Y/N to catch the glint of something under his jacket—metal. Not a wallet. Not a phone.

A gun.

“You don’t know who you’re talking to, sweetheart,” he murmured, too low for the music to carry.

“Actually,” Y/N said, steady now, “I really don’t care.”

He smirked—and reached for Celia’s arm.

Y/N moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t graceful. But it was fast. Her fist connected with the side of his face, snapping his head sideways with a sickening crack. He stumbled, clutching his jaw, eyes wild with shock.

Celia gasped. “Y/N!”

“Run!” Y/N shouted, grabbing her hand.

They pushed through the crowd, Y/N shoving shoulders and spilled drinks out of their way. Adrenaline burned through her veins as they burst through the exit door and into the cold night air.

And slammed straight into him.

Matteo.

He was waiting beside a black car, arms crossed, jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

The sight of him brought everything to a screeching halt.

Celia froze, wide-eyed. “Matteo—”

“Get in the car,” he said, voice low and venomous. His eyes never left Y/N.

She stood her ground, chest heaving, blood still buzzing in her ears. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“I said—” he took one step forward, towering over her “—get in the car.”

Celia obeyed without another word, slipping into the back seat.

That left Y/N and Matteo alone in the street, steam rising from sewer grates, music still thudding behind the closed door.

“You followed us,” Y/N said, voice shaking—but not from fear. “How long were you watching?”

Matteo’s stare was unrelenting. “Long enough to see you break his jaw.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Because he grabbed her.”

His silence was colder than anger.

“You think I can’t protect her?” she asked, stepping closer, fire in her veins.

“I think you don’t understand what kind of people come sniffing around my family. Or what it costs to draw their attention.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

They stood in the silence of the city’s edge—her chest rising, his fists clenching.

Then, something in his expression cracked. Just a little.

“You could’ve been killed,” he said, softer. Not gentle—but raw.

Y/N swallowed. “So could she.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Matteo opened the car door.

“Get in.”

She hesitated—just long enough to make him twitch—then climbed in beside Celia.

The door slammed behind her, the locks clicking into place like a seal.

And for the first time since he’d met her, Matteo Romano didn’t know what to do with what he felt.

The Romano estate was silent when the car pulled through the gates.

Too silent.

Y/N stepped out before Matteo could open her door, jaw set, hands still scraped and trembling from the punch and the panic. Celia trailed after her, quieter now, her earlier glow faded into a shadow. Matteo said nothing, his footsteps hard on the marble as he stormed ahead.

They followed him into the sitting room. The lights were too bright, the room too cold. A maid tried to speak—but one look from Matteo and she vanished.

The door slammed shut behind them.

And then, he turned.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His voice was thunder—quiet and shaking with the kind of anger that didn’t explode, but burned.

Celia flinched. “Matteo, please—”

“No,” he snapped. “You lied. You snuck out. You went into the city without protection. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been there?”

“We were fine,” Y/N cut in, stepping forward. “Until someone tried to grab her. That was the only threat. And I handled it.”

“You?” Matteo laughed once, bitter. “You think you can protect her?”

“I did.”

“You threw a punch in a back-alley bar, and that’s your definition of protection?”

“Matteo—”

“No, Celia!” he barked, spinning toward his sister. “You risked everything. You knew this marriage is the only thing keeping peace right now. You jeopardized—”

“I don’t care!”

The words ripped from her throat—louder than either Y/N or Matteo had ever heard her speak.

And just like that, the room fell still.

Celia stood in the center of the marble floor, her braid slipping loose, eyes shining with sudden, overwhelming tears.

“I don’t care about the deal, or the family, or the name!” she cried. “I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want a life that feels like a cage dressed in diamonds.”

Matteo’s mouth parted, but no words came.

“Do you think I don’t know what this marriage is?” she whispered, voice breaking. “Do you think I don’t see how it’s all just business—just another transaction with my life?”

Y/N stepped beside her, instinct taking over. Her hand slipped around Celia’s waist, guiding her gently to the couch. She pulled her close, smoothing her hair, pressing her cheek against her temple.

“It’s okay,” Y/N murmured. “Let it out.”

Celia shook against her, sobbing now—ugly and raw and far too big for such a soft girl.

Matteo stood frozen, hands at his sides, his breath shallow. He looked like a man watching his whole world crack open and realizing he didn’t know how to hold the pieces.

“You never asked me if I wanted it,” Celia whispered. “You just assumed I’d go along because it’s what’s best for you.”

“It’s not about me,” Matteo said hoarsely.

“Yes, it is,” she said, lifting her head from Y/N’s shoulder, tear-streaked and trembling. “You want control. You want to protect me, but only on your terms. You don’t trust me to know what I want.”

Y/N’s arm stayed tight around her.

And slowly, slowly, Matteo’s walls began to show their cracks.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of people we’re dealing with—”

“I don’t want to,” Celia whispered.

Silence again.

Y/N looked up, meeting Matteo’s eyes across the room.

He wasn’t furious anymore.

He just looked tired.

And beneath the fury, the pride, the family name—he looked like a man who had no idea how to love someone without turning it into armor.

The echoes of Celia’s sobs still lingered in the marble halls by the time she’d slipped upstairs to her room, wrapped in Y/N’s soft words and a promise of tomorrow.

Now it was just Y/N and Matteo.

The house was silent around them—too grand, too hollow. Only the low flicker of firelight from the drawing room offered any warmth, casting golden shadows over the cold edges of the night.

Matteo stood near the fireplace, arms folded across his chest. No longer furious—but unreadable. A man made of stone and pressure and things he didn’t know how to say.

Y/N sat on the edge of the leather armchair, spine straight, fingers curled around the armrest like a tether.

“You love her,” she said softly.

Matteo looked up, eyes dark and distant. “Of course I do.”

“But you’re loving her in a way that’s killing her.”

His jaw tensed. “I’m keeping her alive.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. “And what kind of life is she supposed to have, Matteo? One where she’s passed from father to brother to husband like a bargaining chip?”

“She was born into this.”

“She’s still allowed to want more.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared into the fire like it might offer him answers he didn’t already own.

Y/N leaned forward, voice firm but gentle. “If you want this marriage to work—if you really believe it’s necessary—then her fiancé needs to actually be there. He needs to show up. Talk to her. Listen. Learn her favorite color. Ask how she takes her tea. That’s all a girl wants, Matteo. To be seen. To be respected.”

His gaze slowly slid toward her, something shifting behind those storm-gray eyes.

“Respect,” he murmured, like it was a foreign word.

Y/N nodded. “Understanding. Kindness. A little effort.”

They sat in that silence for a while, the fire popping gently between them. The distance narrowed—not just in space, but in something deeper. Something neither of them had asked for but now felt the edges of with startling clarity.

Matteo stepped closer.

She didn’t move.

“You fought for her tonight,” he said, voice low. “Risked your safety without hesitation.”

“She’s not a soldier, Matteo,” Y/N said, meeting his gaze. “She needs someone who won’t make her fight for every ounce of freedom.”

He studied her face, and it wasn’t the usual calculating stare. It was... quieter. More personal. As if seeing her in a new light unsettled him more than any threat ever could.

“You’re dangerous,” he said finally.

Y/N gave a soft smile. “Because I said what no one else will?”

“No,” he murmured. “Because you make me want to listen.”

His hand brushed against her arm.

The tension coiled between them like wire pulled tight, drawn together by something that neither of them could name. His gaze dropped to her lips. The firelight flickered across his features, softer now, less iron and more man.

He leaned in.

And so did she.

Their breaths mingled, close enough for heat to pass, for shadows to tremble—

But Y/N pulled back, slow and deliberate, her lips parting with a soft exhale.

“I need to go home,” she whispered.

He blinked once, like he’d forgotten there was a world beyond this room.

Y/N stood, smoothing her blouse, heart thudding.

“You’ll walk me out?” she asked.

Matteo nodded once, but didn’t speak.

As they reached the door, she glanced back at him. “Think about what I said. She needs someone who chooses her.”

And with that, she slipped out into the night, leaving behind only her perfume, her warmth, and a man who had never been left wanting.

Until now.

Sunlight spilled through the windows of Y/N’s apartment, casting soft golden lines across her hardwood floors. The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and somewhere, a playlist of gentle jazz crackled softly from her phone.

She stood in front of the mirror in a soft robe, towel-dried hair curling at the ends, fingers brushing mascara onto her lashes. Her skin still hummed faintly from last night’s adrenaline—her hand sore, her heart unsettled.

She didn’t want to think about Matteo. Or his eyes. Or how close their mouths had been.

A knock at the door startled her from the thought.

She glanced at the clock—8:03 a.m.

Another knock. This time gentler. Familiar.

She padded to the door and peeked through the peephole.

And smiled.

Elias.

She opened the door and was immediately greeted by the smell of warm cinnamon and the sight of her boyfriend standing there—tall, dark blond hair tousled from sleep, dressed in a gray hoodie and black jeans, with a bouquet of sunflowers and wildflowers in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Elias said with a grin. “I brought bribes.”

Y/N’s heart softened. “You got back last night?”

“Late. Didn’t want to wake you,” he said, leaning in to press a soft, warm kiss to her lips. “But I missed you.”

She kissed him back, smiling against his mouth. “I missed you too.”

He handed her the bouquet. “Your favorites.”

She inhaled them deeply. “You remembered.”

“I always do.”

She stepped aside and let him in. He dropped his bag on the counter and started pulling out breakfast—flaky croissants, egg sandwiches, a small tub of her favorite honey Greek yogurt, and two bottles of fresh orange juice.

“Okay,” she said, impressed. “You really missed me.”

“I figured you’d need fuel. Heard through the grapevine you’re planning a wedding for a mob princess.”

Y/N blinked. “Where’d you hear that?”

He smiled over his shoulder. “A little bird. I pay attention.”

“Too much attention.”

He shrugged playfully. “I worry. You’re the softest tough girl I know.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him. He looked so calm. Steady. The kind of man who folded her laundry, made playlists for road trips, rubbed her feet when she had long days. The kind of man you marry when you want peace.

And yet…

Last night still burned beneath her skin like a brand.

“How was Texas?” she asked, pouring juice into two glasses.

“Boring,” he said, pulling her close with one arm. “Long meetings. Long drives. Nothing half as interesting as what you’re wrapped up in.”

She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest. “I punched someone last night.”

Elias pulled back slightly, brows raised. “You?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not—I swear.” He cupped her face, eyes filled with admiration. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Want me to go beat them up for you?”

She laughed, really laughed, and buried her face against his neck. “No, I already did a good enough job.”

They stood like that for a moment—wrapped in warmth, familiarity, and affection.

But even as she held him…

Matteo's voice haunted the edges of her mind. You’re dangerous. You make me want to listen.

Y/N closed her eyes.

She was safe here.

So why did she feel like she was only half-awake?

The Romano estate was already vibrating with tension by the time the morning sun cleared the hills.

Voices echoed off the marble.

“You promised me he’d cooperate!” “That man has no spine!” “His father would’ve handled this already—” “You think I care what his father would’ve done? He’s not marrying his father—”

Matteo stood at the head of the long dining table, jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath his crisp black shirt. His younger brother, Rico, paced across the room like a caged dog—wiry, sharp-featured, eyes flaring with frustration.

“He didn’t even call after what happened last night,” Rico barked. “Celia could’ve been hurt—hell, Y/N hit someone, and that guy still thinks he can treat this marriage like a goddamn brunch date!”

“He was never worthy,” Nonna snapped from her seat. “His blood’s thin. No teeth.”

Viviana stood beside her, arms folded, voice sharp and clear. “But we need this alliance. Matteo, fix it.”

Matteo didn’t move. “I told you this would happen. He doesn’t respect her because he doesn’t know her. He sees her as a favor—not a future.”

“So change that,” Viviana snapped.

“Or end it,” Nonna growled.

The room surged with shouting again—Rico cursing, Viviana hurling accusations, Nonna raising her cane and slamming it against the floor like a gavel.

Matteo stood still through it all. Not indifferent—just waiting.

Listening.

Calculating.

Then the bell rang.

Three short chimes.

Silence dropped like a stone.

Rico rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”

“Let the chaos in,” Viviana muttered.

The butler moved toward the door, but Celia was already flying down the stairs.

Y/N stood in the entryway, the morning light soft on her face, her coat draped neatly over one arm, a hand-wrapped in gauze and tape from last night’s chaos.

“Hey,” she said, a little breathless. “Sorry I’m—”

“You’re here!” Celia squealed, launching into her arms with the kind of joy that shattered the stale air in the house like glass.

Y/N hugged her tightly, blinking in surprise. “You okay?”

“I am now,” Celia whispered, her voice pressed to her shoulder. “Come. Come upstairs. I don’t want to see anyone else right now.”

She grabbed Y/N’s hand—careful not to touch the bruised one—and practically dragged her up the staircase.

Matteo turned to watch them go.

Y/N didn’t look back.

But he noticed everything.

The way her wrapped hand rested against the banister. The way Celia leaned into her, trusting her like she hadn’t trusted anyone since their mother stopped tucking her in. The way her presence, quiet and graceful, sucked the fury from the room without saying a word.

“She makes her feel safe,” Nonna said quietly, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Matteo didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

Upstairs…

Celia’s room was nothing like the rest of the Romano estate.

Where the halls were stone and sharp edges, her space was full of softness—canopied bed draped in white gauze, floral wallpaper worn at the corners, books piled on the windowsill like she’d started ten and finished none. It still felt like a girl’s room. A girl who’d tried to grow up before she was ready.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed while Celia rifled through a drawer for a tin of ointment.

“Let me see your hand.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N said, but held it out anyway.

Celia winced at the sight. “It’s so swollen.”

“You should’ve seen the guy.”

They both laughed, the tension from the night before melting under the sunlight and the scent of lavender from a nearby candle.

“I’m serious,” Celia said as she gently applied the balm. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Y/N replied softly. “But I wanted to.”

There was a pause—quiet and meaningful.

“I meant what I said last night,” Celia whispered. “You make me feel like I’m allowed to want things.”

Y/N smiled. “You are.”

“And I do. I want more than this house. More than business and bloodlines. I want a real life.”

“Then let’s plan it,” Y/N said suddenly.

Celia blinked. “What?”

“You’re a bride. And for once, let’s plan a wedding you actually want. A dream one. Just for you. No guests. No alliances. Just… what you’d choose if the world didn’t belong to your last name.”

Celia’s eyes sparkled, wide with wonder. “Can we?”

“We already are,” Y/N grinned. “You just haven’t told anyone yet.”

Downstairs…

Matteo sat alone in the study, the fire low and crackling, the scent of ash curling into his collar.

A small folder lay open on the desk.

Photos. Reports. A timeline.

Celia’s fiancé, Emilio Mariani—fifth son of a lesser crime family. Titled. Protected. Lazy.

Weak.

Matteo’s eyes trailed over a photo of Emilio at a rooftop bar—surrounded by women. Not Celia. Never Celia.

Another image: his car parked outside a strip club. A charge to a hotel not registered under his name.

The final straw: a police report. Altered. Buried. A bar fight, three years ago. Another man took the fall. Matteo hadn’t known about it—until now.

“I trusted him,” Matteo muttered to no one. “I sat at a table with his father. Took his hand like it meant something.”

His fists clenched.

Then, footsteps.

Rico entered, shutting the door behind him. “You’ve decided?”

Matteo nodded once. “He’s done.”

“What about the alliance?”

“We’ll build another.”

Rico hesitated. “And Celia?”

“She’ll be protected.”

A pause.

“And the planner?”

Matteo didn’t look up. “What about her?”

“She’s… involved now. Whether you like it or not.”

Matteo stared into the fire for a long moment.

“She’s a problem,” he said finally.

Rico smirked. “Then why do you look at her like that?”

Matteo didn’t answer.

But his jaw tightened.

Because deep down, he already knew the truth.

She wasn’t a problem.

She was a threat.

And he was already planning how to keep her close enough to control—

Or never let go.

At the Mariani Estate…

The air was stiff with cigar smoke and ego.

The Mariani patriarch sat behind a polished oak desk, flanked by his two sons: Emilio, lounging in his seat like the spoiled heir he was, and Luca, the younger—clean-cut, thirty-seven at most, dark-haired and watchful with sharp, calculating eyes.

Matteo and Rico stood across from them, both in tailored black, radiating a kind of cold pressure that turned the office into a crucible.

“You embarrassed my family,” Matteo said calmly. “You humiliated my sister.”

Emilio scoffed, tipping back in his chair. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rico moved first.

One second, Emilio was talking. The next, he was on the ground, blood spilling from his nose, his chair overturned behind him.

“You don’t speak her name again,” Rico hissed, standing over him.

“Enough,” the elder Mariani barked, rising to his feet. “You come into my home, throwing fists like animals—”

“Your son put hands on a Romano woman,” Matteo said, still steady. “Do you think I��d let that pass? She’s not available. She’s sacred.”

“And what would you have me do?” the old man snapped. “Cut him off? Apologize like a dog?”

“I don’t want apologies,” Matteo said. “I want something better.”

A beat of silence.

The elder Mariani sighed and glanced toward Luca.

“This one,” he said, gesturing. “Luca. My second son. He’s not like his brother. He studied in Rome. Quiet. Clever. Disciplined. He could make a woman like your sister feel safe… and respected.”

Matteo’s gaze shifted to Luca.

And Luca, to his credit, didn’t look away.

“I would take it seriously,” Luca said. “And I would court her, not collect her.”

Matteo gave a single nod.

“One meeting,” he said. “She chooses.”

And with that, the terms were set.

Back at the Romano Estate…

Celia twirled in front of the mirror, holding up a swatch of chiffon like it was already stitched into a gown. “Do you think Luca would like something off the shoulder? Or is that too much?”

Y/N smiled from the bed, legs tucked beneath her. “You haven’t even met him yet.”

“I know,” Celia said, breathless with hope. “But Matteo agreed to the meeting. That’s something.”

“I’ll be here if you want backup.”

Celia turned, eyes soft. “You’ve already done more than anyone ever has.”

They hugged tight at the top of the stairs before Y/N slipped out, her heels quiet on the marble.

At her apartment…

The warmth of the day still lingered in the air when Y/N stepped inside, unwrapped her bandaged hand, and curled up on the couch.

Her phone buzzed.

Elias.

She smiled softly, thumb hovering over the answer button for a moment before picking up.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” Elias said, voice warm and relaxed. “How’s your hand?”

“Better. Still sore.”

“I hate that you got hurt.”

“I don’t.”

A beat of silence. “You wanna do dinner tonight? I was thinking your place—I’ll bring wine. Cook.”

Y/N hesitated. Then smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

They chatted a little longer—about the Romano estate, Celia’s nerves, Elias’ meetings—before hanging up.

But even as she changed into something soft and started setting the table, her thoughts drifted.

To firelight. To a man who called her dangerous like it was holy. To a kiss that hadn’t happened—and still lingered.

And the strange ache of having everything she thought she wanted…

And wondering if she was already losing interest.

Two weddings.

Two lives.

Two entirely different kinds of chaos.

Y/N moved between them like a storm with a clipboard—balancing floral orders, finalizing menus, fielding last-minute seating chart disasters. Her new client was a high-strung heiress who needed everything now, and Celia’s wedding—still months away—remained wrapped in tension and centuries-old expectations.

She was exhausted.

But she was moving. Always moving.

Her weekdays were meetings and mockups. Her weekends were for herself—wine nights with Jade and Maya, rooftop brunches, dancing until her cheeks ached from laughing. And most nights, Elias was waiting—at her apartment with takeout, or at his place with wine and slow jazz playing low on the speakers.

He was steady.

Warm hands. Soft kisses. Gentle promises.

“I love seeing you like this,” he said one night, stirring pasta on her stove. “Busy. Happy. Glowing.”

She smiled, leaned against him, and kissed his shoulder.

But in the back of her mind, there was always a flicker of something else. A hallway. A wrapped hand. Firelight. And gray eyes watching her like she was something rare.

She didn’t speak of Matteo.

Not even to herself.

Celia and Y/N still met—quiet moments between meetings, dress fittings, and floral discussions. But they were shorter now. Softer. Less laughter, more glances over their shoulders.

Her mother and grandmother hadn’t forgotten the escape.

Neither had Matteo.

Still, Celia kept her head high, and when she finally agreed to the meeting with Luca, she did so with a grace Y/N hadn’t seen in her before.

And Luca… was nothing like Emilio.

He was kind. Thoughtful. He listened when Celia spoke. He asked her what she wanted, and meant it. He brought her books instead of jewelry. Asked her questions instead of offering compliments.

After their second meeting, Celia pulled Y/N aside in the garden.

“He’s… good,” she said, cheeks flushed. “And I think he actually wants me.”

Y/N squeezed her hand, smiling. “Then maybe this can be your story. Not theirs.”

Celia nodded slowly, eyes distant. “I hope so.”

In the greenhouse...

Celia walked beside Luca through the Romano estate gardens, the glass panels overhead dripping with condensation from the late spring heat. She wore pale yellow, hair loosely braided, eyes bright.

Luca kept his hands in his pockets, respectfully distant—but attentive.

“You like roses,” he said.

“I like wildflowers,” she corrected. “Roses are too... expected. Too manicured. But I like them best when they’re a little overgrown. Imperfect.”

He smiled, quietly charmed. “Then I’ll have to bring you some that refuse to behave.”

She laughed. Not the polite kind. The real kind.

When they stopped by the marble bench beneath the lemon tree, she finally said, “Why are you really agreeing to this?”

“Because your brother offered me a life built on loyalty and legacy,” he said. “But you… you’re something else entirely. You’re a choice I’d be proud to make.”

She looked down, blushing. “That’s the right answer.”

In Matteo’s private study...

“I don’t care if she blushes when he talks to her,” Matteo said flatly. “I want to know if he can handle pressure.”

Rico leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s not like Emilio. That much is clear.”

“I need more than not Emilio. I need stable. Calculated. Humble—but with teeth.”

“He’s all of that.”

Matteo’s gaze flicked to the surveillance photo on his desk—Luca holding the greenhouse door for Celia. Not touching. Not hovering. Just present. A steady figure in the frame.

“I want a background run done again,” Matteo said. “Anything buried, I want it dug up. If he hurts her, there won’t be time to fix it.”

Rico gave a knowing smile. “You’re not used to men treating her right.”

Matteo didn’t smile back.

“I’m not used to anyone loving her the way she deserves.”

At Y/N’s apartment...

The kitchen smelled like roasted garlic and rosemary, the candles were lit, the wine poured.

Elias sat across from her at the table, sleeves rolled, collar undone. He looked like something out of a cozy film: handsome, tired, reliable.

And yet…

Y/N couldn’t shake the quiet tension between them. The distance.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she said.

Elias paused mid-bite. “Just tired. Work’s been nonstop.”

“You’ve said that a lot.”

He looked up at her.

For a beat, his expression softened—but then it twisted, slightly defensive. “Do you think I’m lying?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I just… I don’t know. Something feels off.”

He pushed his plate aside and leaned on his elbows. “Maybe it’s not me that’s changed.”

She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I see the way you talk about your clients,” he said. “You light up when you mention that girl—Celia. Or when you talk about her brother.”

Her breath caught.

“You don’t say anything,” he added. “But it’s there. In the way you talk around him. Or avoid his name altogether.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ve been good to you,” Elias said softly. “I’ve loved you quiet, steady. I’ve never tried to own you. But sometimes it feels like you’re somewhere else.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And that terrified her.

She reached for his hand anyway. “Let’s not do this tonight.”

He nodded.

But even as they finished their wine and sat together on the couch, something between them had shifted.

Not broken.

Just… bent.

And things that bend under too much pressure don’t always snap.

Sometimes they just stop fitting

The warehouse had been dusty, humid, and completely unfit for the kind of elegant, last-minute wedding transformation Y/N had promised.

But she never backed down from a challenge.

She’d been moving crates, climbing ladders, helping hang strings of lights and vintage drapes herself—half because she didn’t trust the new assistant, and half because she needed the distraction.

She didn’t see the broken step.

Didn’t hear the crack until she was on the ground.

By the time she limped out of the rental van and up the steps to her apartment, the adrenaline had faded into a dull, throbbing ache up her ankle and into her hip. Her palms were scraped again. Her nails were chipped. Her dress was wrinkled and dusty.

But worse than the physical pain was the silence.

Elias hadn’t texted back.

Not last night. Not this morning. Not after she told him she was working late and sore and needed to hear his voice.

He’d left two days ago for another "work trip"—only this time, there had been no soft goodbye, no airport kisses, no “I'll miss you.” Just a single-word reply:

"Safe travels."

And since then… nothing.

Not even read receipts.

He’d never done this before. Not even when they fought. Not even when they were new and messy.

Y/N sat on her couch, still in her work clothes, her ankle wrapped in ice and her phone sitting useless in her lap. She stared at it like it might light up if she just wanted hard enough.

It didn’t.

And that’s when the knock came.

Three firm taps.

She rose slowly, wincing, one bare foot dragging behind her as she crossed to the door.

She opened it—

—and her breath caught.

Matteo stood there.

In black slacks and a slate-gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times. There was something restless in his posture, like he wasn’t used to waiting on the threshold of anything.

His eyes scanned her instantly.

The limp.

The bandages.

The redness around her eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came.

He filled the silence.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m—fine,” she said too quickly, clutching the doorframe.

His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

She gave a bitter little smile. “Well. Apparently I am.”

Silence crackled between them.

Matteo's gaze dropped to her hands, then to the shadows beneath her eyes. His expression shifted—not pity. Not concern.

Just… awareness. Of the hurt. Of the cracks.

“I didn’t come here to cause more problems,” he said quietly.

She laughed once—short, brittle. “You didn’t have to. You are the problem.”

He didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move.

“I just needed to see you.”

“Why?”

Another silence.

“You looked tired. At the estate last week. Different.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s what you came here for? To tell me I looked tired?”

Matteo stepped closer, crossing the invisible line of the threshold, and she didn’t stop him.

“I came because I knew something was wrong,” he said.

“And what exactly are you going to do about it?” she asked, her voice hoarse now. “Fix me like one of your family problems?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “Because you’re not a problem. Not to me.”

Her eyes filled, hot and sudden, and she hated it—hated the way the tears burned without permission. Hated that it was him here, in this moment, while the man who was supposed to be hers vanished behind silence.

She looked away.

“I’m so tired of feeling like a placeholder.”

“You’re not.”

She swallowed. “Then why does it feel like no one ever stays?”

Matteo’s hand rose—hesitated—then touched her cheek, warm and slow.

“I’m still here.”

And god help her…

She leaned into him.

Not because it was right.

Not because it was safe.

But because it was real.

For the first time in days, it was real.

Y/N didn’t know why she said it.

Maybe it was the ache in her ankle. Maybe it was the weight of being alone. Maybe it was the way Matteo touched her face like she wasn’t a battlefield—but a secret he wanted to keep.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

Matteo didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her for a long, silent second. Then he nodded.

Inside, the air was warm. The apartment smelled like old flowers, burnt garlic, and something else—something restless.

He followed her in, quiet as a storm. She limped back toward the couch and sank into the cushions, hissing as her ankle flared with pain.

Matteo crouched in front of her.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

“Let me see.”

She gave in.

His hands were warm, careful, steady. He unwrapped the ice pack, adjusted the bandage, and checked the bruising with the kind of gentleness that made her heart throb.

“You should’ve gone to urgent care,” he said softly.

“I didn’t want to go alone.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

And stayed there.

“I’m not good at this,” she said, voice breaking. “Holding everything together. Pretending I’m not falling apart. Elias… he hasn’t called. He’s never gone this long without calling. Even when we were fighting. And I don’t even know why it hurts this much, because he’s probably just busy, and—”

Her voice cracked.

Matteo didn’t interrupt.

He just listened.

His hand was still wrapped lightly around her ankle, his thumb tracing one soft, slow circle against the edge of the bandage.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” he murmured. “You’ve been pretending since the day we met. Smiling when you wanted to scream. Apologizing when you wanted to run.”

She inhaled sharply.

His hand slid from her ankle to her knee. Not forward. Not greedy. Just… there.

And it felt like too much.

Too much silence.

Too much truth.

Too much him.

“You drive me crazy,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was slow and heavy, a dam breaking. Months of tension. Words unsaid. Moments missed. Her hands curled into his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer as his lips moved over hers like he meant it. Like he needed it.

He leaned over her, guiding her back against the cushions. His hand slid beneath her shirt, brushing her waist, her ribs, just under her bra—a slow, reverent touch that made her arch into him.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against her neck.

She didn’t.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his body half-over hers, one hand sliding over the soft curve of her breast, thumb grazing her through the lace. She gasped into his mouth, fingers in his hair now.

She didn’t want to think.

She didn’t want to feel anything except this.

And then—

RING.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up.

Elias.

The name might as well have been a gunshot.

Y/N froze.

Matteo stilled against her.

She reached blindly, snatching the phone and sitting up. His hand slipped away from her body like it burned him.

Her chest rose and fell, lips swollen, eyes glassy.

“I need to take this,” she whispered.

He stood slowly. Backed away. Silent. His jaw clenched, gaze unreadable.

She answered the call.

Her voice was soft.

Too soft.

“Hi…”

And Matteo walked out without a word.

Y/N held the phone to her ear with fingers that still trembled. Her heart hadn’t settled. Her lips still tingled. The taste of Matteo was still in her mouth, and Elias’ name was glowing on the screen.

“Hi,” she said softly, voice barely steady.

“Hey…” Elias’ voice was breathless, like he’d just stepped out of a meeting. “God—I’m so sorry.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“I’ve been a mess. I know I’ve been distant. I just—work’s been swallowing me whole. And I took it out on you, and that’s not fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

She stared at the floor, her toes still curled against the carpet where Matteo had stood. Where he’d knelt. Touched. Tasted.

“I was just scared,” Elias continued. “Scared that you were slipping away and I was watching it happen without being able to stop it.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “You’re not losing me.”

Not yet.

He let out a soft laugh—relieved, grateful. “I just… I miss you. I’ll be grounded for a while after this next trip. No more travel. No more late nights. I want us to get back to where we were.”

She forced a smile that he couldn’t see. “That sounds good.”

They talked a few more minutes—about safe flights, rescheduled dinners, quiet plans.

She didn’t tell him what had just happened.

She didn’t tell him about the hands under her shirt. The mouth on her neck. The fire still curling low in her stomach.

When they hung up, she was alone again.

Except she wasn’t.

Matteo’s cologne lingered in the air—dark and musky, laced with amber and something sinful. It clung to the cushions. Her skin. Her soul.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Across the city…

Matteo stood in the dark, shirt half-unbuttoned, jaw tight, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand.

He hadn’t gone home.

He couldn’t.

The memory of her was carved into his hands, his mouth, his blood.

The way she’d pulled him in—hungry, aching—and the way she’d whispered “I need to take this” like it didn’t just shatter something deep inside him.

Elias.

That name had felt like betrayal. Not because he didn’t know. Not because he thought she owed him something.

But because she hadn’t pushed him away until after she’d let him touch her like she belonged to him.

She’d wanted it.

He’d felt it in the way her body arched under his. The way her hands fisted in his hair like she’d been starving for this. For him.

And yet—she’d chosen someone else.

For now.

He tossed back the whiskey, jaw tight, throat burning.

But he wasn’t letting her go.

Not yet.

Not when he knew how she looked when she wanted him.

Not when he knew what her silence tasted like.

Not when she smelled like regret and his name.

The Next Morning…

Sunlight cut through the blinds.

Y/N stood at her mirror, face pale, eyes heavy. She smoothed on concealer like it might cover up the guilt. The confusion.

Behind her, the bedsheets were still rumpled. Her phone buzzed with a good morning text from Elias, sweet and simple.

And beneath it…

One missed call.

From an unknown number.

But she knew who it was.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t answer, either.

The Romano estate buzzed with quiet activity—staff moving chairs for an afternoon tasting, Celia fluttering between dress swatches and menu updates, Luca chatting politely with Viviana by the windows.

Y/N moved through it all like a ghost in silk.

Poised. Graceful. Smiling softly when appropriate.

And carefully, deliberately—never looking at him.

Matteo stood near the library doors, watching her from beneath lowered lashes. He’d said nothing when she arrived. Hadn’t spoken when she passed within arm’s reach. But his gaze tracked her like a lion in tall grass—silent, lethal.

And she knew it.

She felt it burn between her shoulder blades.

So she smiled at Celia. Asked the chef if they could try something less creamy for the starter. Complimented Nonna’s earrings. Took notes like her hands didn’t remember the way he’d touched her.

Kind. Professional. Untouchable.

Cruel.

Later.

The house had quieted. Most of the family disappeared after lunch. Celia had gone upstairs with Luca. Y/N gathered her files, intent on leaving quickly.

Too late.

She turned down the hallway—and he was there.

Blocking her path.

“Excuse me,” she said softly.

He didn’t move.

“Matteo,” she said.

Still.

Then—“You’re ignoring me.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “I’m working.”

“You think this is going away because you’re polite about it?”

She met his eyes. Steady. Sad. Trying to be firm.

“We’re going to pretend it never happened,” she said. “Because it shouldn’t have.”

He took a step forward.

“No.”

Her spine stiffened. “You don’t get to decide how I carry what happened.”

“I carried it all night.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“You let me touch you,” he said, voice low and rough. “You whispered for more.”

Her eyes flashed, but her voice stayed quiet. “And then I stopped. You want credit for not pushing past that?”

Matteo’s hand shot out—not hurting, but firm—gripping her wrist. Possessive. His fingers curled over the bandage like he owned the bruise beneath.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it,” he growled. “Don’t insult me like that.”

Y/N stared up at him, heart pounding.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” she whispered. “I said it shouldn’t have happened.”

His breath caught. Just for a moment.

But he didn’t let go.

“You’re mine,” he said. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Y/N’s lips parted. She hated the heat that rose in her cheeks. The way his grip sent sparks to her spine. The way part of her wanted to lean back in and let the world burn.

Instead, she whispered, “Let me go.”

And—slowly, reluctantly—he did.

She took a shaky step back.

“Don’t follow me,” she said, and walked away with her head high, even if her chest was splintering.

Behind her, Matteo stood in silence, jaw locked, watching her like a man who’d just found something precious…

…and wasn’t ready to lose it.

Y/N sat curled on Jade’s couch, nursing a second glass of red wine, her ankle elevated on a velvet pillow. The living room was cozy—dim fairy lights along the ceiling, music humming low in the background, and pizza boxes scattered like wreckage from an emotional storm.

Maya flopped onto the carpet with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, so… when exactly were you going to tell us you made out with the Don of Darkness?”

Y/N groaned. “I didn’t make out with him.”

“You kissed. You let him feel you up on the couch. That counts.”

Jade raised a brow from her armchair. “He touched you under your shirt, didn’t he?”

Y/N flushed. “Yes. Okay. Yes. But I stopped it.”

“You stopped it after letting it happen,” Maya said, wagging her finger. “That’s not a no. That’s a ‘not yet.’”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I shouldn’t want him.”

“But you do,” Maya sing-songed. “And he wants you, babe. That man’s stare could set fire to ice.”

“He’s dangerous,�� Jade said quietly.

Y/N looked over. “You’ve said that before.”

Jade didn’t smile.

Because she wasn’t teasing.

“I mean it,” she said. “I wasn’t going to say anything but… Elias called me.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Jade hesitated, then sighed. “He’s been shopping for rings.”

Silence.

“He wanted help picking one. Said he’s going to propose after this last work trip.”

The wine glass in Y/N’s hand suddenly felt very heavy.

“Oh.”

“Y/N,” Jade said gently. “He’s planning a life with you. You can’t risk blowing that up over a man like Matteo Romano. You know how this ends.”

Maya frowned. “Okay, but do we know? I mean—what if Matteo’s serious? What if he’s the one she actually wants?”

“That’s not the point,” Jade said. “She needs to choose who she can live with. Not just who makes her pulse race.”

Y/N didn’t say anything.

Because she didn’t know.

Not yet.

Later… Across the City…

The Romano estate hummed with quiet activity. Plans for an upcoming social gathering—charity adjacent, but meant for power networking—were already underway. Matteo sat at the head of the room, fingers steepled, listening to the rundown from Rico and Viviana.

“We’ll invite the DeLucas, the Rosellis, the rest of the big fish,” Viviana said. “And keep the press to a minimum.”

“We should have Celia there,” Rico added. “It’ll solidify the new arrangement with Luca.”

Celia looked up from her tea. “Can I invite someone?”

Viviana arched a brow. “Who?”

“Y/N.”

Matteo’s head snapped up.

“She’s been working herself into the ground,” Celia continued, oblivious. “She deserves a night off. And she knows how to handle a room better than half our PR team.”

Rico smirked. “Would be interesting to see how she handles it. Or who she handles.”

Matteo didn’t speak. But his eyes darkened.

He already knew what he wanted.

And she was already threading herself into his world—

Even as she tried to pretend she wasn’t part of it.

Celia twirled a silver spoon in her tea, her legs curled beneath her on the oversized settee in the Romano conservatory. The sun filtered in through the glass ceiling, warming the lush greenery that surrounded them. It was one of the few places on the estate that felt untouched by politics—just light and leaves and peace.

Y/N sat across from her with a notebook on her lap and a faint frown tugging at her mouth.

“You’re quiet today,” Celia said gently.

Y/N looked up. “I’m just tired.”

“That’s not it,” Celia said, setting her cup down. “You’ve been somewhere else all morning.”

Y/N hesitated. Her fingers stilled on the edge of the paper.

Then she sighed.

“I think Elias is going to propose.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Celia tilted her head. “Isn’t that… good?”

Y/N stared down at her hands. “It should be.”

The words settled like a stone between them.

Celia didn’t rush her. She just sat there, waiting, always more intuitive than she let on.

“I should be happy,” Y/N said softly. “He’s kind. Safe. Good. He’s always been good to me.”

“But?”

Y/N met her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about someone else.”

Celia didn’t need to ask who.

She looked down into her teacup instead and whispered, “He’s not good for you.”

“I know.”

“But you want him.”

Y/N let out a quiet breath that felt like defeat. “I do.”

Celia reached across the space between them and gently took her hand.

“I know what it’s like,” she said. “To want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. To love two things at once and not know which one is your future.”

Y/N’s eyes stung. “What did you do?”

Celia smiled, soft and sad. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

They sat there like that for a while, hand in hand, surrounded by green things and quiet truths neither of them could yet outrun.

Then Celia leaned forward. “Come to the gathering.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“It’s just a social thing—lowkey, wine, people in suits pretending they’re saving the world. Come. Breathe. Wear something pretty.”

Y/N hesitated. “Will… he be there?”

Celia didn’t answer right away.

Then, with a small smile: “Do you want him to be?”

Y/N looked away.

Which was answer enough.

The Romano estate glittered that night.

Candles danced along silver candelabras. Waiters moved like shadows through the crowd, trays balanced with champagne flutes and bite-sized indulgences. String music played softly beneath the hum of conversation and laughter—power disguised as charm.

Y/N stepped into the foyer like a secret unveiled.

She wore a satin dress the color of moonlight—elegant, draped, sleeveless. Her hair curled loosely, falling over her shoulders like silk. Lips soft, eyes lined in shadow. Understated. Breathtaking.

Heads turned.

But she didn’t notice.

Because her heart was beating too loud.

Celia appeared first, radiant in midnight blue, her eyes widening as she saw her. “You look like you just stepped out of a dream,” she breathed, grabbing her hands.

“I feel like I’m going to pass out,” Y/N whispered back.

Celia laughed and tugged her further inside. “You’ll be fine. Come on. You need to meet Luca’s brother, and the DeLucas, and—oh, Luca’s over there, he’ll want to say hi—”

Y/N moved from one introduction to another, each smile more rehearsed than the last. She could feel eyes on her. She always could. But one gaze burned hotter than the rest.

She didn’t need to turn around.

She knew.

And then—

His hand.

Warm, familiar, low on her back.

Her breath caught.

“You’ve made a scene,” Matteo murmured behind her ear.

“I walked in,” she replied, forcing her smile to stay as she nodded at the man in front of her. “That’s not a scene.”

“It is when you look like that.”

Her cheeks flamed.

Celia glanced back, saw them, and gave a look somewhere between amused and concerned—before quietly moving on, slipping into the crowd like the good sister she was.

Y/N turned slightly toward Matteo, keeping her posture poised, her expression polite.

“Leave me alone,” she said beneath her breath.

“I tried.”

“Try harder.”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her back, guiding her gently toward a quiet corner near the window where the flickering candlelight couldn’t quite reach.

“You haven’t answered my calls.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“But you keep showing up.”

“I work here,” she said sharply. “I’m Celia’s planner. That’s all.”

“You didn’t wear that dress for her.”

Y/N’s lips parted.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, her smile cracked. “You don’t get to do this. Not with your hands on me. Not when I’m trying to pretend last week never happened.”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Then stop pretending.”

Before she could answer, movement across the room caught their attention.

Viviana and Nonna stood by the fireplace, flutes in hand, eyes narrowed in their direction.

“She’s holding herself well,” Viviana murmured, sipping her drink. “Even with him breathing down her neck.”

“She hasn’t cried. Or cowered. Or flinched,” Nonna said with a soft, impressed hum. “She might be perfect for him.”

Viviana raised an elegant brow. “He’d destroy her.”

“Or,” Nonna said, watching Y/N’s spine stay tall as Matteo leaned in, “she’d change him.”

[writingwithcolor]

Avoiding the white savior of the kingdom

@ceo-of-angst asked:

Okay so I'm writing a fantasy series. There's two main kingdoms though there is a third but that one doesn't have to do anything with this ask. Both of them are likely as big as a continent each so there are different climates everywhere, therefore there's a lot of diversity even within one country. The issues mostly is between the two kingdoms nationality wise, as there's a war. The prince of one of the kingdoms kills his older brother to gain the throne. This is where the issue starts. They have a younger (half)sister who ends up leading a revolution bc of her brother's bad rule (famine, war, dictatorship and incantation or sentence to fight to the death in war to anyone who doesn't obbey the government etc), she's white, she's helped by my main cast who are all poc (one of them also from nobility) from the other kingdom and I don't want to accidently make it a white savior She's not my main character though if anything we only see into her pov bc of a difference between kingdoms in book 2. Most of the pov is on my main cast so I don't know how this could pay out.

Add diversity to the kingdom

There is a simple solution: don’t make one kingdom all-white or all-BIPOC. Add in diversity and mixed race. You seem to already be doing that, and it’s not an issue of race but rather tyranny. White saviorism is when only a white character can solve a problem for BIPOC and they’re seen as the hero. If it’s a team effort, where your protagonist is fallible but well-intentioned, you should be fine. -Jaya

Questions to ask yourself

This critique got levied at Tamora Pierce’s Trickster series, and it’s a pretty valid critique of the books—every time you have a white person as a figurehead of an otherwise-diverse movement, you’re going to start getting into why this white person, and why then?

It’s especially salient if you have the person come into an already-established rebellion movement. Is her involvement the thing that gets the privilege necessary to make the movement valid? What about her makes her the ideal top person in the organization?

Why is she white?

My first question is: why is she white? Is it related to colorism and classism? If yes, then why are you automatically making the leading group white if there’s so much diversity and so many other groups can trend extremely pale?

Why are the kingdoms so big?

My second question is: why are the kingdoms so big? It’s actually frighteningly hard to run a continent-sized country. If you’re attempting to make these single groups so big simply for ease of worldbuilding, and for diversity’s sake, know that a country does not have to be large to contain a multitude of groups. You are allowed to have political rivalry in a small area and still maintain diversity within it.

How much privilege is she willing to give up?

My third question is: how much privilege is she willing to give up? Is she trying to take the throne for herself, or is she trying to destroy all of the structures that gave her status in the first place? Because that question will determine how willing the PoC around her are going to be. Why would they support a ruler if they’ve been subjugated by that family, with no real promise she’s going to be any different once she gets in power?

On the flipside, why would she be willing to give up any of her privilege in the name of removing her brother from the throne, and what stops her from going off the deep end once she has the ability to control others?

It’s likely doable to make this situation read as less of a white saviour, but in order to do that you’ll likely need to wask yourself a lot of hard questions about your motives and the character arc you want to have with her.

People may see a white savior, regardless

And you’ll also have to ask yourself if you’ll be comfortable with never really being able to avoid some people calling this a white saviour plot. Even if you do “everything right” and follow every bit of advice you can, there’s always going to be some people who aren’t too thrilled that the person saving everyone is white.

So examine your motives, really nail down what you’re trying to show with this, and come to terms with not making everyone happy no matter what you do.

~Mod Lesya

[zhxme]

im imagining being on someone’s lap and getting chokehold with one arm to keep me in place while they slap me.

keeping my arms away so they can slap my tits or spreading my legs so they can strike my pussy harshly. degrading me and telling nasty words for being an ungrateful brat.

all while im crying, apologizing in tears and begging to stop despite how wet my pussy keeps getting throughout all the abuse.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[jesterfairy]

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭: 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭

A͏ D͏a͏r͏k͏ R͏o͏m͏a͏n͏c͏e͏ J͏o͏k͏e͏r͏ F͏i͏c͏ 🖤

💚♠︎♦︎♣♦︎♠︎💚♠︎♦︎♣♦︎♠︎💚♠︎♦︎♣♦︎♠︎💚♠︎♦︎♣♦︎♠︎💚

Status: This story is still in progress.

Current word count: 146,383

💀ATTENTION💀 This fic is morally bankrupt, emotionally devastating, and absolutely addictive. You will question your morals. You might fall in love with a psychopath. And yes, somehow—despite all the harrowing triggers—this is, in fact, a romance.

*You’ll need water, a fan, and maybe a therapist.

Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.

As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.

A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.

Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim, predator x prey

Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: non-con, r@pe, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, twisted power dynamics, stockholm syndrome, psychological torture, self-harm, sexual assault, gaslighting, emotional abuse, dead dove do not eat

Chapters:

Chapter 1: The Game Begins

Chapter 2: Aftermath

Chapter 3: Painted Shadows

Chapter 4: Joker's POV 🃏

Chapter 5: The Edge of Oblivion

Chapter 6: The Price of Defiance

Chapter 7: The Weight of Silence

Chapter 8: Twisted Comforts

Chapter 9: At His Mercy

Chapter 10: Cracks

Chapter 11: Marked

Chapter 12: The Things that Hurt

Chapter 13: Almost

Chapter 14: Claimed

Chapter 15: A Broken, Fragile Thing

Chapter 16: A God in the Dark

Chapter 17: Joker's POV 🃏

Chapter 18: Where No One Will Ever Find You

Chapter 19: Be Good, Doll

Chapter 20: The Maiden and The Monster

Chapter 21: Beneath the Mask

Chapter 22: Jack

Chapter 23: Starve The Beast

Chapter 24: The Alcove

Chapter 25: Say It Again

Chapter 26: The Altar and the Offering

Chapter 27: Ghosts and Scars

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Thank you for sacrificing your sanity to read this! If you screamed, blushed, or blacked out from emotional damage, tell me everything!

Comments, asks, messages, and reblogs are more than serotonin boosts—they’re what motivate me to keep digging deeper into this unholy mess. So thank you, truly! Every single reaction helps fuel my next chapter. 😌

Please let me know if you'd like me to add you to the tag list 💚

[merakiui]

an introduction to my sweet monster!jade, but in meme format:

[sarahsartistportfolio]

the inherent sexiness of shadowing someone and being shadowed

let me explain *grabs a mic, takes a seat and welcome to my ted talk*

I am thinking about a woman shadowing her teacher/professor/master. And how she has fallen in love with this consistent admirable view she has of him. Always behind him, always right over his shoulder, watching him. He should feel very far away but instead this forced proximity of the leaner & the learned has made the atmosphere around you two thick. You do not feel the cold distance of standing behind the light he casts, but instead the over flowing warmth and admiration he has for you when he calls your name and asks you to preform a demonstration. He's proud of you didn't you know? You've fallen in love with the image of his eyes barely glancing over his shoulder to look back at you with his concealed smirk. You learn the proper skills and knowledge you need from him sure. But you also learn like the pieces and kooks and cracks that make him him. What makes him weak, what gets under his skin. All unintentionally, but isn't that the beauty of falling in love? "You smell like him." another expresses and the remark makes your heartbeat speed up, you keep thinking about it for the rest of the day. Shadowing someone means becoming like them, whether you intend to or not. "You write like me." "Hm?" you're caught off guard by his remark. His dark eyes soften, not hiding his affection for you "You write like me, I've noticed. Its cute." And oh it's so over for you.

"Do not let anyone tell you you walk in my shadow." His tone irritated but its not directed towards you, but towards what his colleague said earlier. You struggle to keep up with his longer strides, before he sighs and stops in front of you. "You're more than that to me." He takes your hand effortlessly, like everything else he does. The warmth of his hand in yours clouds your mind as you two brush arms and continue down your path to your next lesson.

oh and the sexiness of being shadowed by someone?

You feel his eyes on you. But you've always had eyes on you. Ever since you were a baby. You're the Emperor and Empress's only living child. They're little miracle from god. The kingdom's crown jewel. You've had royal guards following you around your entire life. But this is different. Why do his eyes feel so heavy on you? The sound of his heavier footsteps behind you become a strange comfort. "Alright let's go." You turn and say to your knight as you prepare to leave a diplomatic meeting. He offers his arm to you, he always does. Even as the heat rises to your cheeks and your hand hesitates, you take it. This is normal. You've done this before. You tell yourself. Breaking from your thoughts is his finger gently tapping your arm. Ah. "Sorry." You embarrassingly apologize, too lost in the thoughts of how he makes your heart rate spike. You gracefully switch to his right arm instead. "I've forgotten you're left handed." and you both quietly laugh. The constant feeling of his hand on your lower back(even as others scold him it's improper to touch you so frequently), or the feeling of his gloved hand coming up to your elbow, as he gently guides you away from someone he deems suspicious. His presence is always warm and familiar. He's always been a consistent in your life. You can't escape his gaze. "I can feel your eyes on me." you speak out loud in the painfully quite room of your office. You don't look over your shoulder to your knight but you can hear the smile in his voice. "Does it feel good?"

He is in your shadow, as he sits in front of you, with the large ornate window behind you. The sunlight dancing around your face making him fall harder for you. He is always there, as he would never choose to be anywhere else but besides you. You two have just shared a tender vulnerable moment. Him confessing his weakness of feeling fear every time he must draw his weapon. And you confessing the heavy burden of the crown and your family place upon you. But he has one last confession to share with you, as his hand comes up to caress the sunlight hitting your cheek. "Y/N." as its said so tenderly, like its a secret between the two of you, "I think I love you."

[joncronshawauthor]

The Power of Cultural Identity in Fantasy Narratives

In fantasy literature, few themes are as potent and relevant as the struggle between cultural assimilation and resistance. This conflict, mirroring real-world historical and contemporary issues, provides a fertile ground for exploring complex character dynamics and societal tensions. Today, we’ll delve into this theme using “The Fall of Wolfsbane” as our looking glass. The Clash of…

[zhxme]

ill like to be drinking with someone until my brain turns so drunk they can make me their dumb slut.

encouraging me to drink more as my mind flows through the alcohol. becoming more affectionate and giddy even if they fondle my tits or sneak a hand down my pants. feeling my body become so hot and limp, i practically become a horny mess on the palm of their hand.

making myself rub on their thighs. begging to be touched more and getting teased that im a desperate drunk whore. all so that i can finally get fucked, get their cock pushed inside me despite not being conscious. just naively enjoying the pleasure i craved.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Been thinking about Wayne Manor.

What it would be like as a haunted house, and Bruce Wayne cursed as its last living heir.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

In an upstairs bathroom, a leaky faucet drips water like tears. A strange stain darkens the bottom of the tub, where one of Bruce's ancestors had drowned herself after the loss of her lover.

No one ever uses that bathroom, yet there are days when Bruce can hear running water. And he would feel a grief so profound that it would leech all of the color out of the sky.

And he would remind himself, with renewed determination, of all the terrible fates that befell anyone who has loved a Wayne.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, older perhaps, than Gotham itself. Where the walls are overrun by kudzu vines, the fat purple clusters of their flowers all but hiding the weathered stone.

Except, perhaps, in the East Wing, where even the vines do not grow. The walls remain blackened, the windows cracked and warped. Here, there once lived an heir who thought that he could outlast the curse. Or perhaps he believed that there was no curse at all.

He had held the wedding on the grounds itself—ignoring the way the grass twisted around his bride's ankles like starving rats—and moved her into the East Wing that very night.

One would hope that they were happy in the week before the fire. Where the heat was so intense that it blackened the Manor's stone walls and the smoke that rose from it blotted out the sky.

One would hope they died instantly, suffocated in their sleep before they even knew what would happen.

And yet, Bruce knows they did not. Perhaps it is only his own pessimism. Or perhaps, the Manor wanted him to know.

It was she who died first. Her smooth skin turning cracked and leathery, blisters forming on her skin and bursting like the fat of a pig on a spit.

It was she who died first, and the heir had enough time to run away. To live with the knowledge of what he had done to her.

But he did not.

Instead, he lay down next to his bride and let the fire claim them both.

And Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Manor's wealth and tragedy memories, would wake up some nights with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, a cursed house. A house that has claimed everyone its heirs have ever loved.

But oh, it is hungry. Its once-thriving grounds have become dry and barren. The grass that had once twined around a doomed bride's ankles have grown yellowed and shriveled.

For while its previous owners have kept it fed with its share of tragedies, Bruce Wayne had starved it.

Bruce Wayne, who as a child would wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth, who once used an upstairs bathroom where the faucet drips water like tears.

Bruce Wayne, who promised himself that he would be the last heir Wayne Manor would ever have.

Now, imagine you. You who have lived in Gotham City, your whole life.

You who would pass by the Wayne Manor on the way to classes or to work, and you would look at its barren gardens and its cracked windows.

And you would feel...something.

A pull perhaps or an ache, one that could only settled by approaching this house, this cursed lot, placing your hands against the wrought iron gate so that you can get a better look.

And you would see its blackened walls and its barren gardens, the grass yellowed and withered and dead.

And you would feel a strange sort of tenderness for a place that looks so unloved.

You feel the cold of iron against your palms, a flash of heat.

And then—

"Ouch."

Somehow, you had cut yourself against the gate. A wide cut, a deep cut, straight against the meat of your palm.

You don't quite know how it happened. And perhaps, it did not matter, because the only thing you can focus on is the pain that throbbed against your skin like a heart.

You curse, try to staunch the flow, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of a figure.

Perhaps it was the mansion's old butler or perhaps one of its many ghosts. But as he approached, you knew that this could only be one person.

The heir to Wayne Manor was said to be a glib playboy, one who would spend rather spend his family's vast amount of wealth on drugs and women and sex than actually fixing his broken-down home.

And yet, when you meet him on that fateful day, he did not look like the blindingly beautiful man you had seen in the newspapers.

He didn't have a fixed smile that could have meant anything from loathing to adoration, he didn't wear a suit that cost more than your yearly salary.

That day, he looked human. He looked reachable.

Perhaps that was what made you accept the handkerchief he so graciously handed to you. Perhaps that is what makes you smile—a little clumsy, a little lopsided, but a smile all the same—as you say,

"Thanks a ton. See you around, Bruce Wayne."

And when you walk away, you do not look back.

You do not see what Bruce Wayne saw.

You do not see how your blood dries preternaturally fast on the surface of the black gate, as if something was drinking it in.

You do not see the way the grass along the driveway twists around your ankles like a starving rat.

And you definitely do not see the expression on Bruce Wayne's face when he realizes what it all meant.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its once-barren gardens now blooming with life. Galica roses with buds so heavy that their stems drooped, as if begging one to cut them and place them in a bouquet.

Imagine Wayne Manor, which has fed well on centuries' worth of tragedies, as a house starved.

For its latest heir, Bruce Wayne, had vowed never to fall in love.

Had vowed that whatever curse lingered in his family tree like the rot in an oak would die with him.

Imagine your blood drying on a wrought iron gate. And a leaky faucet that drips water like tears for a story that already has an ending.

Imagine a blackened wall, and the story of a man who lay down next to dead bride, to be consumed alive in a fire.

Imagine Wayne Manor, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

And now imagine: its hunger.

[thephoenixcave]

Edgar: This is my beautiful gorgeous angel who has never done one thing wrong in her entire existence ❤️❤️❤️

Also Edgar: this pile of lard has a warrant in three counties

[phoenixwithapencil]

I can’t quite articulate this correctly, but listen to me. Listen to me. It’s important that Gladio and Ignis and Noctis do not get along. It’s important that they have sworn duties. It’s important that Gladio and Ignis are sworn by oath to Noctis and that they are in some ways obligated to be by his side. It is important that they see where Noctis has flaws and they call him on his shit and it’s important that Noctis never, ever berates them for it even if he gets huffy and snippy. It’s always about the topic he’s being called out on and never the calling out. It is important that despite being flawed people who don’t always get along, Noctis never, ever abuses his place as Prince and Gladio and Ignis are still loyal down to their souls.

It is important that they see each other’s flaws, especially important that Iggy and Gladio see Noctis’s flaws, and call him out and stand by him. It’s not blind loyalty. They follow Noctis, eyes wide open and choosing to take every step by his side. It’s important.

[gender-euphowrya]

"ascended astarion fan draws him & her tav killing wyll, goes in comments to say she made her tav a high elf specifically to make her racist, talks about identifying her enemies with yellow stars" wow

unsurprising but wow

[dogboymutual]

hi everyone. letting you all know that i find the clicker game about the guy who likes clicking. the one called clickolding. that one. it's. hhot

[roomba-mangga]

thoughts on thistle and yaad's dynamic that i vomited in the tags of another post but will now try to articulate here: they're not actually family, or at least they shouldn't be. not in a conventional sense anyway. framing them as uncle and nephew (even in a non-literal, silly fantasy world way) rides more on technicality than anything concrete.

what i mean by this is yaad calls thistle by name and says he and delgal were raised "like" brothers. he talks about thistle like he's an outsider imposing himself into the melinis' space, and it's clear that thistle was never legitimized as a member of the family. for thistle's part, though we don't know how he would treat yaad pre-demon brainrot, it's safe to assume based on the way he punishes him—turning him into a doll—and how little is shown in the way of any sort of relationship between them that thistle only cares* about yaad as an extension of delgal (otherwise i'd expect something like kabru and milsiril, because it's not like another complicated interspecies family dynamic would be out of place, yet there's next to nothing on them even in bonus content, just their scant interactions in the main story).

in essence, they're strangers to one another. thistle's desperation to preserve the illusion of a family, a model where he doesn't even fit, was the snare they were caught in for the past thousand years of stasis. yaad-as-nephew is a prop to uphold that illusion, and thistle is playing a role he's unfit to play. in the context of post-canon interactions, attempting to reconstruct that facade would only be a reenactment of trauma for them both (in a deeply compelling way i'd love to watch unfold, tbh), as that "uncle and nephew" framing places thistle in an implicit position of power over someone he's already traumatized through misuse of authority in the past, a role which also perpetuates his adultification and yaad's infantilization in turn. it'd mostly be an obstacle to any real connection.

best to burn the melini family bridge, i think, and if there's still anything salvageable left in the rubble, let something different supplant it.