Page 18 of Charming Villain

Gianna’s chin lifts a fraction. “I thought that was the plan all along.”

The way she delivers that line, half-bitter, half-resigned, with just enough edge to cut, coaxes a twist of annoyance through my chest. “Don’t get smart with me. You’re going to wait on me, hand and foot. Cook, clean, manage my schedule—everything I require. Understood?”

She doesn’t flinch this time. “Understood.”

A single word. So calm. So final. It digs under my skin, festering like a wound that refuses to heal. I want to see something break behind her eyes, watch her composure crack and shatter. I want a reaction—a tremor in her voice, a flicker of fear, a flash of anger—anything to remind me that she isn’t indifferent to this, to me. But she just stands there like a statue, her expression unreadable.

My fingers twitch at my sides. If I grabbed her now, if I backed her against the counter and forced her to meet my gaze, would she still look at me like that? Like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience she has to learn to endure? The thought ignites something bitter in my chest, a burn that has nothing to do with rage and everything to do with the memory of her body beneath mine, pliant and fever-hot, moaning my name like it belonged to her.

But that was then. And this is now.

Now, she’s locked herself away behind that mask of obedience, and I don’t know if I hate her for it or if I hate myself more—for wanting to be the one to rip it away.

“Let’s start with coffee. Make me a cup.” I jerk my chin toward the sleek coffeemaker on the counter.

“It’s almost five p.m.,” she points out but moves anyway.

“Do we have a problem?” I counter, daring her to push, to give me an excuse to remind her exactly who’s in charge here.

But Gianna doesn’t push. She just nods and rummages for the beans in my cupboard. Her movements are surprisingly sure and methodical as if she’s done this a thousand times before in a thousand different kitchens. I lean against the counter and watch her every step, tracking the precise way her fingers work the machine, waiting for a tremor or hesitation that never comes. The hiss of the machine, the smell of brewing coffee—anyone else might find it comforting. I find it infuriating that she remains so composed, that not even the smallest crack appears in her professional veneer.

When the coffee is complete, she hands me the mug with a slight, knowing smile that makes my jaw tighten, and I take a sip. It’s perfect, damn it. A swirl of bitterness and rich flavor that hits every note exactly right. “It’s awful,” I lie. Then I tip the mug over the sink, watching with grim satisfaction as the dark liquid circles the drain. “Try again.”

A faint crease mars her brow, but she doesn’t protest. Wordlessly, she makes another cup. I can’t decide if I want her to disobey or to keep following orders like this. One outcome might justify punishing her and give me the release I crave. The other might... what? Soothe me? The thought itself is unsettling.

Gianna hands me the second mug with her eyes lowered this time, the perfect picture of submission. I sip it, ignoring the coil of tension in my gut when her finger brushes mine. “Better,” I pronounce. “But don’t forget your place.”

She lifts her gaze then, just for a moment, and the change is electric. There’s a flicker of defiance in her eyes that sparks desire in my stomach. “My place,” she repeats.

“That’s right. You belong to me now.” Even as I say the words, a strange knot forms behind my sternum, twisting tighter with each breath, and I have to force my expression into a sneer. “Don’t forget it.”

Silence stretches between us. Gianna lowers her gaze once more, tension thrumming across her shoulders. “I won’t.”

Chapter11

Gianna

Idon’t know anything about this house. I don’t know the layout, the rules, or how he wants things done. And it’s strangely terrifying because, for all my father’s brutality, I knew how to navigate his estate: every corridor, every servant’s entrance, every locked room. But here, I’m lost.

“Come on,” Luciano finally breaks the silence. “I’ll show you around.”

It’s not kindness exactly—there’s no warmth in his tone—but it’s not the harsh bark of an order, either. More like he’s forcing himself to speak civilly. I nod once and follow him out of the kitchen with my bags in hand.

He leads me through the house at a brisk pace. I trail a step behind, wary of stepping too close. Every time I near him, my skin buzzes with awareness, remembering how when his hand brushed mine in the kitchen, it felt too intimate and too hateful all at once.

I glance around, taking in everything and committing it to memory. The living room is open and airy, with high ceilings adding to the sense of spaciousness. Large windows let in the last dregs of afternoon light, but no personal touches stand out—no photographs, no mismatched blankets, no clutter. Even the coffee table is pristine, hosting only a single remote. It all looks like it was staged for a magazine shoot, not lived in. But still, it’s warmer than the house I come from, where everything is marble and sterile and cold.

“You can sit wherever you want,” he says curtly, nodding at a couple of leather couches that face each other. “Though you’ll probably be too busy to lounge around.” His lip quirks into a smile as if he’s sharing an inside joke that only he knows—one that I suspect I won’t find very funny when I finally understand it.

“Understood.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue, but it’s safer than picking a fight.

He turns on his heel and leads me down a short hallway, flicking on lights as we go. The illumination reveals a neat bathroom with shining fixtures, a spare bedroom with a perfectly made bed in crisp white linens, and a small desk in the corner.

Luciano pauses, gesturing toward the bed. “You can put your things in here.”

I stand in the doorway, uncertain. There’s a flicker of relief that floods my chest at the thought of sleeping in my own bed. I have to fight the urge to let out a sigh of gratitude, knowing it will only reveal how desperately I want to escape this whole situation.

The space is plain but comfortable, with walls painted a calm gray and a single piece of art—a minimalist skyline rendered in black and white—on one wall. The simplicity of the room makes it feel larger than it is, almost like a blank canvas waiting to be filled. I half-turn, ready to ask if Luciano has any hangers, but I catch a strange look in his eyes. He’s observing me.

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