5.MARCO RUSSO

Did someone swap bodies with me after that party? Or more accurately, after I met Dahlia Christian Harper.

Obsessions are never healthy. I know that. But this—this feels like salvation. Like peace. Like something inside me has finally, quietly unlocked, and I didn't even realize I'd been carrying that weight until it was gone. She feels like the key to something I never even knew I needed.

Dahlia Harper has consumed my every thought. And I can't shake the feeling that our meeting wasn't just chance. It was something else. It had to be.

It's like I've been drugged. I can't focus on anything—not work, not responsibilities, not even the usual mindless distractions I rely on. Just her.

Today, during a meeting while one of the employees was presenting—God, I don't even remember his name—all I could see was her. Dahlia's laugh, Dahlia's eyes, Dahlia's goddamn voice echoing in my head. And when she posted that stupid social media picture, laughing with some co-star like she didn't have a care in the world, I almost ruined that entire presentation. Obsessed doesn't even cover it.

Obsessed at first sight. It sounds like a cliché, some cheap plotline from a second-rate movie. But it's my reality now. Dahlia's taken over my mind, and I'm utterly helpless against it.

At dinner, when Dad asked why I'd been off my game, I tried to play it cool—headache. Migraine. Stress. Something vague but believable.

Mom bought it instantly, her worry etched across her face. She's always been like that with me and Jo. One sneeze, and she acts like we're in critical condition. But Dad?

No.

Dad stared through me. His eyes narrowed. He wasn't buying it for a second.

"Dimmi la verità, Marco." (Tell me the truth, Marco.)

Fuck. Does he have a sixth sense or something?

"Dante, ti ha detto che è malato," Mom interrupted, rubbing my back.(Dante, he told you he's sick.)

God, I felt terrible. Lying to her. She'd probably sit by my bed all night if I said I had a fever. And here I was—choking on desire for a woman I couldn't get out of my head.

She's a doting mother, something Dad's never approved of. Says it'll turn me into a mama's boy. Or maybe it's just that jealous, possessive part of him that wants her attention all to himself.

"Mia cara, tu non lo conosci. Non avrebbe mai potuto essere così dannatamente distratto se si fosse trattato solo di un semplice mal di testa." (My dear, you don't know him. He would never be this distracted if it were just a simple headache.) His voice softened when he said it.

I felt the noose tightening.

"Sono stufa di voi due," Mom muttered. Her voice was low, but her frustration was clear. (I'm tired of you two.) "Sempre così assorti nel lavoro che non presti mai attenzione a nulla."(Always so consumed by work that you miss everything else.)

She hated this side of us. The overworking, the blind drive, the silence. She thought it would eat us alive. And maybe she's right.

Jo was different. She claimed to believe in balance—art, coffee breaks, taking off to France on a whim. But if she had a deadline? She'd bury herself in it, same as the rest of us. Hypocrite.

Dad tried to reason with Mom, but she held up her hand, silencing him with a single motion.

Only she could do that.

Then she turned to him, her voice sharp.

"What kind of distraction do you think it is?"

Her words cut through the air like glass, and suddenly both of them were watching me again. Waiting. They've never asked about relationships. Not really. Probably because I've never had one.

I opened my mouth to fabricate something—anything—but then she walked in.

Dahlia. With Josie at her side. And she looked...

Exquisite.

She sat beside my father like she belonged there. Like she'd been in this family forever. And just like that, the oxygen in the room shifted.

My mind emptied.

There was only her. Every detail of her.

I forced myself to breathe, to blink, to stay still. Because if my parents saw the way I was looking at her—the tight coil of hunger, tension, worship... They'd know exactly what my distraction was.

And that would be the end of everything.

A smirk appeared in my mouth. Tonight, I cannot resist seeing her. "Hai smesso di fissarla, abbiamo cose di cui parlare," Dad snapped a finger in front of me. (TRANSLATION: HAVE YOU STOP STARING AT HER; WE GOT THINGS TO TALK ABOUT.) FUCK.FUCK.FUCK

He caught me staring at her. And of course, he was grinning—grinning like the smug bastard he was, that expression screaming "I was right about you."

Dahlia had left with Josie for something, leaving me stranded in what felt like a full-scale crime investigation.

"There's absolutely nothing to talk about," I said through gritted teeth. "I've given you my explanation, and I'm excusing myself from this interrogation."

Dad's grin only widened. His face bloomed open like a sunflower in full daylight, radiant, amused, and—worst of all—knowing.

"You're in love, mio figlio." His voice carried that dangerous warmth. "And you know what that means, don't you?"

I tried to fight it. Weakly, stupidly.

"What? No, I'm not."

I could've chosen any better defense, but apparently, I'd left my brain somewhere back in that meeting where all I could see was Dahlia.

"Is it Dahlia?" he pushed. "Don't even try to deny it. I've seen the way you look at her."

I swallowed hard. "How do I look at her?"

His grin cut deeper.

"Like you never want to look away."

My chest tightened. Mom was still quiet—processing. Then her expression shifted.

"Gosh... My boy is in love," she whispered, wrapping me in a hug, gentle and warm and motherly.

God. This was a nightmare.

"I don't know how you figured it out, but please... don't tell her," I asked quietly, voice dropping. Not yet. I wasn't ready to ruin what little I had.

They nodded, smiling in that annoying wise-parent way.

I muttered a goodnight and left. But I couldn't sleep.

Not without seeing her.

Hours Later

I shouldn't have gone. I knew that. But I couldn't stay away.

Her room was quiet, bathed in silver light. She was asleep, curled up in a silk nightdress that shimmered as if woven from moonlight. Her face, half-lit by the window, looked ethereal. Unreachable. Like some goddess dreamt into being.

I moved closer, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

I didn't touch her again. I just... looked. I needed to look.

She was mine. Whether she knew it or not. And there was no world where she could push me away now.

But suddenly—

She started to writhe.

Then scream.

Words tumbled from her lips, sharp and choked, like she was begging someone not to touch her. Panic clawed its way up my spine.

I rushed to her side, gathering her in my arms. Her body trembled violently.

"Sweetheart," I said firmly, "wake up. You're okay. Everything's fine."

Her eyes fluttered open, wild and confused, like she wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.

"Marco—go," she whispered hoarsely, trying to push me away. "He'll hurt you too."

"Who?" I asked, tightening my grip. "Tell me, sweetheart. Who?"

She kept struggling. I held her steady, shook her lightly, made her look at me.

"You had a nightmare," I told her gently, my voice soft but unrelenting. "It's over now."

Her gaze darted around the room—and slowly, she came back to reality.

She didn't ask why I was in her room. Didn't question how I got in. Instead, her voice came out small. Fragile.

"Hold me in your arms."

Those doe eyes looked up at me, wide and afraid, and I swear—I felt something crack inside my chest.

Without a word, I opened my arms.

She crawled into them like it was the only safe place left in the world. Her shoulders relaxed. Her breath evened. And for a moment, we were just two people in the dark, clinging to something human.

I broke the silence.

"Who was he?"

She went still.

"The cruelest person," she whispered, "who did the cruelest things to me. I don't want to talk about it."

Then the tears came. Hot, broken sobs that wrecked her entire body.

I'd never seen her like this. I didn't know this version of her existed.

And God help me—I wanted to kill him. Whoever he was. I wanted to find him and make him bleed for every scar he left on her soul.

"Shhh. It's okay," I whispered, pressing her tighter to my chest. "You can tell me... whenever you're ready."

She didn't answer. Just cried. And I held her.

And all I could think was—Does anyone else know?

Not Jo. Not even Uncle Christian, maybe.

But now I did.

And I would never let her be hurt again.

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