Page 1 of Twisted Devotion

1

ARIA

The gunmetal gates of our family home never let me forget who I am—a Rossi.

Since I returned, the name ‘Rossi’ has become heavier, more like a brand stamped onto me than a family legacy. When I left for school in America, it wasn’t this oppressive. Now, it shadows me wherever I go in this city.

I park my car and step out, adjusting my sunglasses against the glare of the midday sun. My gaze drifts to the mansion before me, an imposing monument of wealth and power, as familiar as it is alienating. Outside, a handful of guards stand like statues, silent, expressionless, unblinking.

When I first got back, I’d tried to connect with them. A joke here, a casual question about their families or hobbies there. But all I ever got in response were grunts, huffs, and a lot of blank stares. Now, I don’t even bother.

As I step into the cavernous foyer, a guard follows with my bags—a collection of indulgences from my morning shopping spree. It’s how I fill the void when the house feels too big, too cold, and too empty. Wandering through boutiques and spending money has become a pastime.

The sudden ring of my phone shatters the silence, dragging me out of my thoughts. Fishing it from the back pocket of my jeans, I glance at the screen. ‘Big Brother’ flashes across it in bold letters.

A mischievous smile curls my lips as I answer. “Marco, do you think the blonde bodyguard and the redhead are screwing? I swear I saw them holding hands earlier.”

There’s a pause on the other end—a heavy, telling silence. “Aria,” Marco finally says, his tone devoid of humor. “There’s an event tonight. You will attend.”

I roll my eyes. What was I expecting? A laugh? A sly“I thought the same thing?”Marco isn’t built for banter. He speaks only when necessary, just long enough to make his point. Never more. Never less.

I sigh and lean against the cold marble wall.

What I need are friends. Or a hobby. Or, if the stars align, maybe even a boyfriend.

The wordboyfriendsends a strange flutter through my chest. Is there really a man out there who wouldn’t tremble at the weight of the Rossi name? Someone who wouldn’t shrink under the shadow of my family’s reputation? A man who could look me in the eye and seeme,not the infamous daughter of a powerful family?

Fuck. The word almost makes me laugh. I can’t even remember the last time I did that.

Now that I’m back home, the idea of finding someone who isn’t intimidated or opportunistic feels laughable. What kind of man would willingly tangle with the rumored precious Rossi daughter? Maybe someone living under a rock, far removed from the legends and whispers that follow my family.

“Aria,” Marco’s sharp tone jolts me from my thoughts, a thread of impatience curling around my name like a warning.

I clear my throat, straightening as though he can see me through the phone. “What time is the event?”

“Eight. Wear something that stands out.”

Code for:Look pretty. Be seen.

I don’t know what Marco gains from parading me around like some trophy, but I like to think it’s his version of sibling bonding. He’s all I have left now—my only family, my only connection in this city. And I’m desperate enough to take what I can get.

At the end of the day, I don’t have friends. I don’t have hobbies. And I certainly don’t have a boyfriend. What I have is a brother. And if attending his events is what he asks of me, I’ll do it.

“Got it. I’ll be ready,” I reply, softer than I intended.

“Good.” The line goes dead before I can add anything else.

Marco never says it outright, but I know exactly what I am to him: a prop, a carefully crafted distraction for his games, the charming, oblivious little sister who smiles, nods, and never asks the wrong questions.

I’ve tried to ignore the hollowness of it and embrace my role as the obedient sibling. But I can’t help wondering how much longer I’ll have to keep this up before Marco truly sees me. Even a little.

It wasn’t always like this. When we were kids—when Papa was still alive—Marco wasn’t so cold, so untouchable. But since Papa’s death, everything has changed.

I glance at one of the guards as I descend the grand staircase into the foyer. His cold, impassive gaze locks onto mine, and a chill runs down my spine. I look away quickly, my stomach twisting with unease.

For the first time, a thought takes root, unwelcome and unnerving.

Maybe the guards stationed here aren’t just protecting the house.

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