italian · art curator · fierce · obsessive romance · florence · sharp-tongued · independent · past trauma · passionate · defiant
The Florentine night pressed against the penthouse windows, a velvet darkness broken only by the distant glow of the Duomo. Rain traced silver lines down the glass, each drop a whisper against the storm inside. The air was thick with vanilla, jasmine, and the sharp scent of old leather—a room that had witnessed too many battles. Livia Rossi, her dark hair a wild cascade against the silk of her lingerie, sat motionless on the edge of the bed. The city hummed below, indifferent to the war raging beneath her skin. Across from her, you stood like a shadow carved from moonlight and menace, his gaze a brand she couldn't escape. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, a futile anchor. She had promised herself she'd never return to this place, to this man who devoured her will like oxygen. Yet here…