Twisted Obsession (Editing)

67 - Lia

Athena Luciana Bianchi

The first thing that struck me as I stepped onto Lorenzo's yacht was its sheer, overwhelming grandeur. It wasn't just a yacht—it was a floating palace, a symbol of his ego and wealth, gliding on the water with an unsettling sense of perfection. The exterior gleamed in the sunlight, its pristine white hull reflecting the soft shimmer of the ocean, while the dark, polished windows gave the entire structure an air of sophistication—almost too perfect, too calculated.

But then I saw it. Written in gold, just above the waterline in elegant, serif lettering: Lia

I froze.

A flicker of something—, disbelief, the sting of memory—clenched inside my chest. Lia. Soft, lazy, possessive—always whispered like a secret, like I was his favorite sin. And now, it was painted onto a multimillion-dollar monument to himself, anchored in salt and silence. Of course he would do this. Of course he would name the yacht after me. Not Luciana. Lia. Intimate. Diminutive. As if even the sea needed to know I belonged to him once.

As I boarded, the coolness of the smooth marble beneath my feet sent a shiver through my body. It was as if every inch of this yacht had been designed to exude opulence without question, from the meticulously sculpted railings to the sleek, low profile that made it look like it belonged to a phantom on the water. The deck stretched endlessly before me, with large, comfortable lounge areas furnished in rich, soft leather and suede cushions, perfect for those who wanted to lay back and soak in the sea breeze—or hide from their own demons.

I moved further into the open space, passing by the bar area where bottles of the finest champagne were arranged like a collection of trophies, each one more expensive than the last. The glossy finish of the surfaces, the gleaming metal of the cocktail shakers, the rich mahogany woodwork—it was all designed to impress. There was no room for doubt: this yacht was for the elite, and no one, least of all me, was supposed to feel out of place.

The lower levels were even more extravagant. The staircase spiraled downward in a curve of smooth glass and chrome, leading to the inner sanctum of the yacht. Each suite I passed was bigger than most apartments, with beds draped in silk and velvet, plush rugs underfoot, and artwork on the walls that whispered of decadent taste, possibly stolen from private galleries around the world.

Lorenzo's private office was tucked away in a corner, a glass-walled room that overlooked the sea, where a massive desk of dark wood sat, surrounded by shelves of leather-bound books and sleek technological gadgets. The dim lighting of the room only heightened the sense of secrecy, the kind of place where deals were made without a second thought, where lives were changed in the blink of an eye.

I caught sight of the pool area on the top deck—an infinity pool that seemed to stretch out into the horizon, as if the water never ended. It was surrounded by chaise lounges and a space for dining alfresco, an entire retreat to escape from the harshness of the world. The cabana-style seating offered a sense of isolation, making it clear that anyone aboard this vessel was untouchable, separated from the rest of humanity by miles of ocean.

But it wasn't just the extravagance that made me feel like a fish out of water—it was the way every corner of this floating fortress reflected Lorenzo himself. Everything was perfectly curated, a mirror of his desire for control, for dominance. Every detail screamed that no one could escape his reach, not even on the vast open sea.

Not even me. Especially not me.

I found myself drifting toward the edge of the deck, the sound of my heels softened by the teak beneath them. The railing was cool beneath my palms as I leaned forward, letting the wind tangle in my hair. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly in front of me—blue, vast, eternal. For the first time in what felt like days, maybe weeks, I could hear nothing. No shouting. No footsteps. No commands barked over encrypted radios. Just the steady rhythm of the waves kissing the hull, and the hush of wind brushing against silk.