[Valentina’s POV]
Sleep is apparently a luxury reserved for people whose brains know how to shut up. Mine is currently hosting a full debate team discussing every life choice I've made in the past two weeks.
Dante breathes steadily beside me, one arm thrown across my waist like even unconscious he's territorial. His face is peaceful in that dangerous way—the kind that comes from being certain you can handle whatever tomorrow throws at you. My brain is treating three AM like prime networking hours.
I slide out from under his arm carefully, which is basically a Navy SEAL extraction operation but with more nudity. He doesn't stir, just shifts slightly and continues his peaceful slumber while I'm wide awake contemplating the ceiling.
The mansion at night is different. Less intimidating, more haunted. I've developed this habit of wandering when sleep becomes theoretical—learning the corners, the shadows, where marble meets darkness.
I throw on one of Dante's shirts because apparently I'm that person now. The fabric still smells like him—sandalwood and something darker that my hindbrain associates with bad decisions and good orgasms. I pad through hallways barefoot, listening to the house settle and creak.
Near the servants' quarters, I hear something that doesn't fit the usual mansion soundtrack. Crying. Muffled, desperate, the kind that's trying to stay quiet but failing.
I follow the sound because my self-preservation instincts apparently clocked out. Down a dimly lit corridor, in a recessed doorway, I find Clara. The same young maid who showed me where the cleaning supplies lived during my first week.
She's pressed against the wall by two soldiers in dark suits, their hands grabbing at her uniform, voices low and laughing.
"Please—" Clara's voice breaks. "Please stop—I don't want—"
"Come on, sweetheart." One of them—buzz cut, thick neck, the kind of guy who peaked in high school and decided violence was a viable career path—grabs her wrist. "We're just having fun. Don't be like that."
The other one laughs, his hand sliding up her thigh. "Yeah, lighten up. You work in this house, you should know how things work by now."
I don't think. Thinking is for people with functional survival instincts. I step into the doorway, and my voice comes out colder than I knew I was capable of. "Let her go."
They turn, annoyed at the interruption. Buzz Cut's expression shifts from predatory to irritated. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the woman the boss paid half a million dollars for at auction." I cross my arms, channeling every ounce of authority I don't have. "And if you think he'll be pleased to hear his men are assaulting staff in his own house, you're welcome to test that theory. I'm sure he'd love to discuss it. Possibly during your funerals."
The sneer falters. Buzz Cut and his equally charming companion exchange glances that scream "we didn't think this through."
"We were just—" Buzz Cut starts.
"Just what? Practicing your aggressive wooing techniques? Testing the limits of human decency?" I step closer, which is either brave or suicidal.
"Let me simplify: get your hands off her right now, or I wake up Dante and let him handle this personally. And trust me, his handling style makes mine look like a gentle suggestion."
They release Clara so fast you'd think she'd caught fire. "It was just fun," the other one mutters, already backing away. "Didn't mean anything—"
"Then you have a really fucked up definition of fun." I don't move. "Leave. Now. Before I change my mind about keeping this quiet."
They disappear down the hallway like cockroaches when the lights come on. I watch until they're gone, then turn to Clara.
She collapses into my arms immediately, sobbing into my shoulder—or technically Dante's shirt, which is now serving double duty as comfort clothing.
Her whole body shakes, months or possibly years of terror finally finding an exit. I hold her, making soothing sounds that probably don't help but feel necessary, my own hands trembling slightly with leftover adrenaline and rage.
"It's okay," I murmur, even though it's clearly not okay and won't be okay for a while. "You're safe. They're gone."
"Thank you." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Thank you, I didn't—they wouldn't—"
"I know." I rub her back, feeling her heartbeat racing against my chest. "Come on. Let's get you to your room."
I walk her through the quiet corridors, keeping one arm around her shoulders while she tries to pull herself together. Her room is small, plain, the kind of space that says "you're valued for your labor, not your comfort."
I help her sit on the bed, grab a glass of water from the tiny bathroom, and wait while she drinks it with shaking hands.
"Will they come back?" she whispers, eyes wide and haunted.
"No." I say it with more confidence than I feel. "They won't. And if they try, you come find me immediately. Understand?"
She nods, still trembling. I stay until her breathing evens out, until exhaustion finally wins over fear and her eyes close. Only then do I slip out, closing the door quietly.
Back in Dante's room, I slide under the covers and stare at the ceiling some more, my brain now hosting an entirely different debate about violence and protection and whether I just made things better or worse.
* * *
Morning arrives with its usual lack of consideration for my sleep deprivation. Dante wakes before me—probably because he actually slept instead of hosting mental symposiums at three AM. I find him in the bathroom, shaving, looking unfairly alert and composed.
"We need to talk," I say, watching his reflection.
His razor pauses. "That's never a good opening."
"Last night, I found two of your soldiers assaulting Clara. The maid. Young, scared, clearly didn't want their attention." I lean against the doorframe. "I stopped them. Threatened them with your name and your theoretical displeasure. They left."
The razor clatters into the sink. His jaw tightens, muscles jumping under skin like they're preparing for violence. "Which men?"
"I don't know their names. Buzz cut, thick neck. The other one had dark hair, scar on his hand." I describe them with clinical precision. "They said it was 'just fun.' Like assaulting staff is a recreational activity."
"I'll handle it." His voice is flat, cold, the tone that means someone's about to have a very bad day.
"Is this normal?" The question comes out quieter than intended. "Soldiers treating staff like entertainment? Like they're just available for whatever because they work here?"
"It shouldn't be." He turns to face me, expression dangerous. "It's not supposed to be."
I notice what he doesn't say. Notice that "shouldn't be" isn't the same as "isn't." Notice that "supposed to be" suggests reality and expectation are having a disagreement.
"But it is," I say. "Isn't it? This happens, and everyone pretends it doesn't, and women like Clara just survive it because reporting it means losing their jobs or worse."
He's quiet for a long moment, something complicated crossing his face. "I'll handle it," he repeats. "It won't happen again."
I want to believe him. Want to trust that his version of "handling" actually fixes things instead of just sweeping them under very expensive rugs.
But I'm learning that wanting something and getting it are two very different concepts in this world.
And sometimes the gap between them is filled with things nobody wants to acknowledge out loud.