Page 15 of Corrupting Lily

“Ouch!” If my knee weren’t so sore, I might admire the intricate design, but instead, I pull my leg to my chest, rubbing it as I scold myself for being so clumsy.

I’m still on the floor when I hear the door open, and a female voice greets me—something I wasn't expecting. When we arrived, there wasn't a single woman in sight. There were, however, a plethora of burly men who didn’t talk to me, just eyed me warily, as if little old me were a threat. It was laughable, but at least I knew that if an invasion or an impromptu war broke out, there would be enough men here to fight it.

“What are you doing on the floor?” The voice is harsh and accusatory, as if I had done this intentionally. When she comes into view, I blink a few times. If I hadn't already been on the ground, her beauty would have floored me.

She possesses that Mediterranean look I envy, with naturally brown skin that gives her a tanned appearance even in winter. I glance down at the pale skin of the leg I cradle, the contrast clear. When I look up, she tosses her luscious, wavy black hair over her shoulder, squinting her perfectly made-up eyes at me—green eyes framed by precisely plucked eyebrows and long black lashes.

My eyes wander over the rest of her form, encased in a beautiful off-shoulder floral dress. A hint of her well-endowed breasts peeks above the frilly edging, and a cinched waist highlights her curvy figure. She isn't skinny, but she possesses curves in all the places I imagine men would admire.Hehad reiterated this to me on numerous occasions: how plain I was, how unflattering my figure made clothing look —clothinghehad selected. If anyone has ever wondered aboutthe power of words, observe the effect of being told, ‘you look ugly,’ repeatedly. My self-confidence and self-esteem were crushed under the weight of three little words.

“Are you just going to sit there staring, or are you going to get your ass up and get dressed? Everyone is waiting for you in the dining room. Breakfast is being served, and Dom doesn’t like lazy people or waiting.” She spins on her heel and then strolls out of the room as gracefully as a model.

Dom. The use of a name that suggests familiarity lingers with me, its force uncorking the bottle where I shove all my emotions away. I push it back down, reminding myself that I have no right to feel this way, and I certainly shouldn’t want to experience it for a man as clearly dangerous as Dominico.

Scrambling, I get up, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. It was the onehedamaged. I tried running away, andhekicked me in the back of the knee, dislocating the kneecap and damaging the ligaments, flooring me before landing some blows to my ribs. Ever since then, it has never been the same. It's likely because it was never properly treated. That would raise too many questions. Consequently, it aches in winter, and the slightest bump makes it swell like it already was.

Hobbling to the bathroom, my eyes widen as I take in my long, natural brown hair hanging loosely down my back. Shit. I must have lost my wig in my sleep last night, and now there's no point in putting it on anyway. Dominico knew who I was. Covering it now just seemed childish.

I gather my hair into a ponytail and then brush my teeth before hobbling to the closet to put on one of the dresses Dominico bought me the day before. It's one I picked out after the incident in the changing room. I heeded his words and chose a short-sleeved dress with a mid-calf-length skirt that exposed the scars on my skin. It wastime to embrace my body. It's the only one I have, and upon reflection, I realize it has withstood so much. I should be grateful for it, not ashamed of it.

It's not lost on me that it has taken a man as dominating and dark as my ex, if not more so, to help me recognize that. I also know that under the right circumstances, Dominico could tear me down just as easily as he built me up in those seconds in the changing room. The fact that he didn't, the fact that he saw me, changed everything.

Being looked at and being seen are two entirely different things. For most men, there is often no clear distinction. But when Dominico looks at someone and truly sees them, and you happen to be that special person who experiences the latter, you definitely know. It's raw, focused, and utterly intoxicating. The shiver running down my spine at the thought of it both thrills and scares me. It's the knife-edge effect. I shake my head, reminding myself that I need to clear it to understand what I'm actually doing here. I’m not naive enough to believe that a man like him brought me here without an agenda.

A few minutes later, I leave my room and encounter a guy in the hall whom I recognize from yesterday—the one who took my keys.

“I’m Matteo, your bodyguard,” he introduces, gesturing with his large hand for me to proceed down the corridor toward the staircase leading downstairs.

My bodyguard? Did I really need one?

“You were at my apartment yesterday,” I say, more as small talk than as anything else.

He nods, his massive frame intimidating as he walks beside me. He is all muscle, and his presence exudes a sense of malice and danger. Yet, when he looks at me, he appears concerned. This is likely because I am walking at a snail's pace, trying to conceal the pain shooting up my leg from my knee.

I smile awkwardly, but that fades when we near the stairs. Damn. There were quite a few of them.

“Is everything alright?” Matteo asks, his eyes scanning my face as he notices my hesitation.

There's no way I’m going to say anything about my stupid injury. That would mean explaining how simply falling out of bed and landing awkwardly can cause it to hurt, and then I would have to share the rest. I still wasn’t sure how much everyone knew about me, and I preferred it to remain hidden as much as possible. I also didn’t want to draw more attention to myself or appear weaker than I already felt. Besides, I doubt anyone would care, and as the mysterious woman said earlier, Dominico hates waiting.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him, smiling and squaring my shoulders as I take the first step. Using the railing for support, I push down any pain I feel, reminding myself that I'm an old pro at this. Slowly, I make my way down the staircase. By the time I reach the bottom, a layer of sweat has formed on my brow and above my upper lip, which I quickly swipe away, hoping Matteo doesn’t notice.

He seems overly worried, so I give him another comforting smile.

“Where to?” I ask cheerfully, waiting for him to lead the way. After a moment of hesitation and a look that suggests he suspects something is amiss, he points to a large wooden door from which sounds are clearly emanating as we approach.

He pushes the door open, and the muted sounds explode into a full symphony, with snippets of Italian woven in between. However, the moment is short-lived. As I step inside, all conversation halts, and every gaze turns toward me, a blush creeping up my face and igniting my cheeks. I despise being the center of attention.

“You're sitting by the boss,” Matteo says quietly, guiding me forward with his hand on my lower back—a touch that isboth surprising and fleeting. As quickly as it appeared, it disappears, and when I look up at him, his face is pale. I follow his gaze to find Dominico’s piercing glare. He looks angry. I hope it isn’t because I'm late.

Because of my knee, the walk to the head of the table is slow. The faces I pass look at me as if I'm an intruder, as though I don’t belong. They aren't wrong. The mystery woman who came to fetch me sits across the table, two seats down from Dominico, glaring at me with clear disdain.

I look away and search for an open seat. The only two available are to the right of Dominico. I look up at Matteo, who points to the seat directly beside Dominico, confirming that it is indeed where I will be sitting. Damn, I was hoping to get a little space. Especially when he looks so damn fine in his trademark black suit and perfectly styled black hair. It surely is a sin to look that handsome. My core clenches, his impact on my body out of my control. He is exactly what it desires. What it craves.

Dominico's gaze narrows as I approach slowly, briefly brushing my brown hair before sweeping across my face and then down my body, lingering on my left knee, which is fortunately covered by the dress.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say quietly, ensuring only he can hear me as I approach my assigned seat, trying to stay calm while he assesses me. His silver-grey eyes narrow as I pull out my chair, and the act of sitting, along with bending my knee, sends pain shooting up my leg. I wince, unable to conceal it.

While the chatter had started again, it stops when Dominico pushes his chair back.

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