Twisted Chaos

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Chanel

⸻

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of distant voices echoing through the halls. Not yelling—never yelling. Everything in this house was always low, smooth, controlled. Even anger sounded like a business deal.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. For once, I hadn't had a nightmare. Maybe it was the blackout curtains, or maybe it was the fact that no one could find me here, not unless Bash wanted them to.

Slipping into a silky robe one of the staff had left on the vanity chair—black, of course—I padded barefoot down the stairs. I didn't know where I was going exactly, but my stomach was demanding something expensive and heavily seasoned.

As I passed one of the sitting rooms, I saw Luca leaned back on a velvet couch, tossing a poker chip between his fingers. Next to him stood another man I hadn't met yet—slim, sharp-suited, and entirely too observant.

"Morning, principessa," Luca greeted without looking up. "Kitchen's that way. Rosa made frittata."

"Noted," I replied, eyeing the unfamiliar guy beside him.

The man's expression was unreadable. "So this is her," he said, mostly to Luca.

"This is Chanel," Luca said flatly, as if daring him to say anything else.

I gave him a tight smile. "Do I get to know who you are, or should I just call you 'stranger number six'?"

He smirked slightly. "Enzo."

"Nice to meet you, Enzo."

"Mm." He gave me a once-over that wasn't exactly friendly. "Let's see if the name stays nice by the end of the month."

Luca shot him a warning look. I didn't flinch. I just turned and walked toward the kitchen. If there was one thing I'd mastered in life, it was handling men who thought intimidation equaled power.

⸻

The kitchen was empty except for Rosa, the housekeeper I'd only seen twice. She was already plating food with the kind of grace only someone who'd been doing it for years could manage.

"I made it light," she said in accented English. "Bash said you're not used to heavy food in the morning."

I blinked. "He said that?"

She nodded, placing a plate of golden frittata, roasted tomatoes, and fresh avocado toast in front of me. "He notices things. Always has."

I didn't know how to feel about that.

⸻

Later that day, I was exploring the second floor when I saw Bash again. He was walking out of his office, buttoning his shirt cuffs with practiced precision, phone to his ear. He barely acknowledged me until he ended the call.

"You sleep okay?" he asked, tone unreadable.

I nodded. "Better than expected."

He didn't smile. Didn't soften. Just studied me for a second like I was one of those puzzles rich people kept on coffee tables.

"I want you to meet someone," he said. "Tonight."

"Who?"

"A business partner," he replied, already walking away. "Dinner. Wear something you like—but not something stupid."

"Define stupid."

"No sequins. No fake lashes. No open-toed shoes."

I narrowed my eyes. "So... your type is plain?"

His smirk flashed—brief and dangerous. "My type is obedient."

I didn't respond, but I think my silence said everything.

⸻

That evening, I stood in front of the walk-in closet Bash had assigned me—because of course he had assigned me one—and pulled on a sleek, fitted black dress that fell just below the knee. I paired it with modest heels, gold hoops, and the quiet rage of a woman pretending not to be out of her depth.

When I walked downstairs, Bash was already waiting by the front door, dressed in all black. No tie. No overdone fashion flex. Just power stitched into fabric.

He looked at me, once. "Good. Let's go."

That was it.

⸻

The drive was quiet. We arrived at a private lounge somewhere in Midtown. Dim lighting. Security so subtle, it was terrifying. The maître d' greeted Bash by name—but not the one I'd been given. Here, he was "Mr. Romano."

As we were escorted to a private booth, I leaned closer. "Romano?"

He didn't look at me. "Don't ask questions you're not ready to hear the answers to."

Message received.

⸻

Dinner was simple but expensive: wine I couldn't pronounce, pasta made by a chef who probably didn't speak English, and a conversation between Sebastian and his partner that was all code and vague threats disguised as polite smiles.

I stayed silent. Observant. Present without inserting myself. Bash didn't introduce me. The man didn't ask.

I was... an accessory.

Until Bash placed his hand on my thigh under the table. Firm. Possessive.

I tensed slightly but didn't move. His thumb traced a slow circle, and for a second, I felt like the only real thing in the room.

⸻

Back at the mansion, I finally broke the silence. "What was that?"

"What?"

"The hand."

He raised a brow. "You were part of the image tonight. I needed you to play a role."

"And what role is that?"

He stepped in close, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Mine."

My breath caught, but I didn't move.

"I'm not yours," I whispered.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing mine. "Not yet."

Then he turned and left, like he hadn't just set my nerves on fire and walked away from the smoke.