Twisted Deal

Chapter 11

§

Matteo

I wake up later than usual, the sun already high in the sky, its rays filtering through the curtains. It's late morning, which means Lisa is awake. The thought of her stirs something in me—curiosity mixed with a possessive desire to know what she's up to.

After a quick shower, the cool water washing away the remnants of sleep, I dress and head to my office. My mind is already on Lisa, wondering how she's spent her morning. I sit down at my desk and pull up the camera feed from her room. The screen flickers to life, and there she is.

She's sitting at her desk, completely naked, her skin glowing in the morning light. Her back is to the camera, her long brown hair cascading down her shoulders as she leans over, focused on whatever she's writing or drawing. The sight of her, so natural and unguarded, sends a surge of satisfaction through me.

She has no idea that I'm watching her, that every movement she makes is under my scrutiny. I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on the screen, curious about what's occupying her mind so intensely. It's almost a shame to break this quiet moment of hers—but then again, she's mine to observe, to control, to manipulate as I see fit.

Curiosity piqued, I decide to review yesterday's recordings, something I often do to ensure everything is as it should be. I quickly skim through the footage, my eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

As the video fast-forwards, something catches my attention—a brief moment where Lisa suddenly grabs something from her desk and rushes to the bathroom. I pause the footage, rewind, and watch it again, this time at normal speed.

There it is. She's sitting at her desk, her focus on whatever she's doing, when the phone rings. I watch as she snatches it up, her movements hurried, almost panicked. She glances around, as if to check if anyone's watching—ironic, given that I'm always watching—and then she bolts for the bathroom, clutching the phone tightly.

I narrow my eyes at the screen. There are no cameras in the bathroom—intentionally, for privacy's sake—but that doesn't mean she's safe from my scrutiny. What's so important that she had to hide? Who called her? And why did she feel the need to keep it from me?

My hand tightens on the mouse as I watch her disappear into the bathroom, the door closing behind her. I replay the moment again, studying her expression, her body language. She was nervous, fearful even.

Whatever it was, she didn't want me to know. And that means it's something I need to know.

I leave my room, the door clicking softly shut behind me, and start down the hallway. The house is still, the kind of quiet that only comes with late mornings when most of the staff have finished their early chores and the rest are busy with tasks elsewhere. The air is warm, almost stifling, the heat of July seeping in through the large windows that line the hall. Sunlight spills through the glass, casting long, golden beams across the marble floors and rich wooden walls.

My footsteps are muffled by the plush carpet runners that stretch along the corridor. The house is vast, a labyrinth of grand, echoing spaces, each corner filled with reminders of the power I hold. The quietness is almost eerie, a stark contrast to the chaos I often create within these walls.

As I descend the sweeping staircase, the air grows heavier, thicker with the scent of summer. The windows are open, letting in a breeze that does little to cool the oppressive heat. Outside, I can hear the distant hum of cicadas, their droning song a constant companion during these hot months.

I walk through the hallway, passing by portraits of those who came before me—men who, like me, held power with an iron grip. Their eyes seem to follow me as I move past, but I pay them no mind. My focus is singular, intent on the girl waiting for me.