BLOODLINE REWRITTEN.

CHAPTER ONE – ASHLEY

It was the same dream again.

Same scent.

The same faceless man.

The same breath on my neck, whispering things I’m not sure were real or just stitched together from leftover nightmares.

And always… the hands. it's always the damn hands, why?

They gripped like ghosts—too real to be a dream, too foggy to be truth. But I felt them. Every time, every fûcking time .

I jolted upright in my bed, chest heaving, bedsheets tangled around my legs like a trap I couldn’t escape. My tiny room felt colder than usual, like the shadows from the dream followed me into the real world.

My skin was slick with sweat, and my mind? A mess. Fogged up like a dirty mirror. Every night, the same flashes—pieces of a puzzle that never fit. A breath against my cheek. A groan near my ear. A whispered name that never comes clearly. Just fragments. Always fragments.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, harder than necessary.

“Get out of my head,” I whispered, then screamed—but only inside.

The scream was always silent, it didn't sound like a scream.

The silence wasn’t mercy. It was mockery.

I don’t remember everything from that night.

I don’t even remember how I got there, how it happened, I'm still confused. It's been 6 years now, and I still don't remember.

But what I do remember is enough to keep me up most nights.

The scent of cologne—sharp and masculine. A weight on my body I never invited. The loss of control. And the terrifying truth that someone had been inside me.

While I was drugged.

While I was unconscious.

While I was... nothing but a vessel.

I swallowed the rising nausea.

People talk about one-night stands like they’re casual, harmless, forgettable.

But mine?

It lives inside me. Rents space in my bones.

And the worst part?

I never agreed to it.

Not really, I don't really think I did.

Not when you can’t remember saying yes.

My own voice feels foreign. His groan echoes in places I thought were safe—my shower, my sleep, my soul. And every time I close my eyes, I hear myself asking:

Are night stands supposed to feel like that?

It was my first time.

And I regretted it with every piece of my body, every breath in my lungs.

---

The sun cracked through my dusty curtains like judgment itself. I rolled over with a groan, the kind of groan that feels older than your age. My sheets clung to my legs like shame, and my hair? Don’t even ask.

Another day in Milan.

To be Broke.

Alone.

And unemployed.

I sat up, stretched my sore limbs, and asked the ceiling, “Is today gonna be different, or just another day in the Hunger Games: Broke Girl Edition?”

I checked my phone—cracked screen, barely holding it together like me—and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Final notice – Account in overdraft.

Pay your rent NOW – From: Landlord.

Loan App #5: We will find you, Miss Robert.

I wanted to throw the phone across the room, but if it broke, I’d be more doomed than I already was.

I caught my reflection in the mirror nailed to the wall. It was shattered into five fragments—five versions of me. All of them tired. All of them hoping today would be the day.

I whispered to myself like I always did.

“Ashley, get your shit together. Fake the confidence. Smile like you mean it. You’ve made it this far. Just make it through today, you can do this Ashely, you have to do this!”

Teeth brushed (with barely-there toothpaste).

Curls tamed (barely).

Lipstick on (thanks, grandma).

Secondhand blazer ironed (with the flat iron, don't ask).

I was ready, prepared to face today.

---

The outside air hit me like a slap. Sharp. Real. Cold.

I hummed under my breath to distract from the loud growl in my belly. Hunger’s been my longest relationship, honestly, I'm not even joking.

“Girl, survive now, thrive later,” I muttered, strutting like I had Louboutins on instead of scuffed block heels from a street vendor.

Yeah, sometimes I talk to myself. Judge me if you want.

I’m alone and trust me it helps and it's like a therapy for me. I find my peace there.

I don’t have a family. Not anymore.

Just me and memories of my grandma, who did everything to raise me in a world that never showed her kindness. She passed, and life never got easier after that.

But today? Today might be different, maybe.

---

Vaitherium Technologies.

Just saying the name made my chest tighten.

Something about it felt familiar. Like a déjà vu I couldn’t shake off.

I’d never stepped foot inside before, but I felt like… I had.

I stopped in front of the building. It stood tall—glass, steel, and power. The kind of place built by people who rule the world behind closed doors.

The company is owned by an Italian.

The tech mogul, The mafia heir, I don't know but I heard he's a mafia. Maybe it's just a rumor.

A man known as much for his silence as his power.

They only hire once a year.

And somehow—God, somehow—I made it to the final round, I don't know how too, maybe the universe has finally answered my request, but let's not hope too much.

But trust me, I didn’t get here by magic. I paid for a tip-off. Hustled my way in. Lied on my resume like every other broke genius. And now I was here.

Rumor had it the CEO himself was doing today’s interviews.

No assistants. No HR, I know it's going to be a tough one, and I'm not prepared for it mentally.

Because this wasn’t just a job—it was the job.

Personal Assistant to Vincenzo Sanchez.

Coldest CEO in Milan.

Richest man in the city under 30.

Rumored mafia connections.

Dangerous. Gorgeous. Unreachable.

And I was going to meet him today, wowwww!

---

I stepped into the lobby like I belonged—even though I felt like a fraud.

The floor gleamed.

The air smelled expensive.

People walked like they had million-dollar secrets.

I clutched my resume and walked toward the receptionist. My heels echoed, giving me the illusion of power. The illusion was all I had.

The receptionist called my name twice before I heard her. I’d zoned out, staring at the massive company logo on the wall like it held the secrets to my life.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

She smiled politely. “Elevator to the 28th floor. Someone will meet you there.”

---

The ride up felt eternal.

A woman—mid-20s, way too polished—greeted me upstairs and led me down a silent hallway. Her perfume was strong. Designer. Probably a gift from her secret billionaire boyfriend.

I checked my lipstick with a pocket mirror and muttered my intro line like a prayer.

“Hi, I’m Ashley Robert. I’m here for the PA position.”

We reached a tall black door. She gave me a nod and walked away.

I took a breath.

Then knocked—twice.

A voice inside said, “Come in.”

I opened the door.

And there he was.

---

He sat behind a desk that looked like it belonged in a palace.

Minimalist. Brutal. Masculine.

He didn’t look up immediately.

But when he did—

Everything in me went still.

Vincenzo Sanchez.

The man who built this empire.

The ghost in the headlines.

The devil with angel bones.

He had a face that could make angels backslide—sharp cheekbones, perfect stubble, eyes cold enough to freeze time. But that wasn’t what stopped my heart.

It was his scent.

That cologne. I knew it. Too well.

Suddenly my vision blurred.

The dream. The hands. The heat. The whispers.

I wasn’t in the office anymore.

I was back in that memory I couldn’t touch but never escaped.

Why are you reacting this way, Ashley? Get it together.

It’s just cologne. Common. Popular.

Right? Don't overreacte, don't mess things up here Ashley.

He looked up, finally.

Our eyes locked.

But I can say that something shifted.

“Good morning,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m Ashley Robert. I’m here for the PA position.”

He didn’t blink.

“You’re late.”

I glanced at the wall clock.

“Only three minutes,” I said.

He raised a brow. “In my world, that’s ten too many.”

The tension was ice. My spine straightened.

He flipped through my resume like it offended him. “Why Vaitherium Technologies?”

“Because I need to eat,” I said. Then caught myself. “I mean… I’m driven. Focused. Good under pressure. And hungry. For success, I mean.”

A beat.

He didn’t laugh. But he paused.

He stared at me like I was something… familiar. Like I reminded him of someone he hated—or missed.

Then he snapped the folder shut.

“You’re hired. Start tomorrow. Don’t be late again.”

“That’s it?” I blinked. “I’m hired?”

No response. Just that stare again.

I turned and left before I could say something stupid. But the back of my neck tingled the whole way out.

I should’ve felt proud. Relieved. Triumphant.

But I didn’t.

I felt seen.

Exposed.

Marked.

Why did it feel like he already knew me?

Why did it feel like... we’d met before?