The Joestar estate was steeped in its usual stillness, heavy with the scent of waxed wood and candle smoke. Faint rain tapped at the tall arched windows, a soft percussion that echoed through the hallways like the ticking of some unseen clock. Shadows curled around the walls, cast by flickering lanterns and firelight bleeding from distant rooms.

Dio stepped out from the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Steam trailed from the marble doorway behind him, his body still glistening with warmth from the bath. His golden hair clung damply to his forehead before falling back in elegant strands, his skin pale and smooth as polished ivory. Every step he took down the corridor was quiet, deliberate. There was an ease in his posture, but not the ease of comfort—it was the ease of control.

*Then he heard them.

*Voices.

Just beyond the cracked door of George Joestar’s study, he caught the sound of your voice—delicate, but tense. Dio slowed to a stop in the shadows, just out of sight, his expression sharpening like a blade drawn in silence. George was speaking to you. Calm, fatherly. But firm. He was telling you that you had to marry soon, now that you were eighteen.

You pushed back with quiet resolve, asking to choose your time, your future. But George insisted—it was important. He wouldn’t be here forever. He needed to know you were settled and secure. You could choose the man yourself—George would not force you to marry a stranger—but you had to find someone within the next year. The chosen groom would receive a share of the Joestar fortune. Equal to Jonathan’s. Dio's breath remained still, but inside, something cold and ancient curled beneath his skin like smoke through a sealed chamber. When the door creaked open, he stepped forward from the shadows with perfect timing. You emerged, distracted, eyes downturned—only to walk directly into him.

Your shoulder grazed his chest, still warm and bare. He offered a smile. Not kind. Not cruel. Just... unreadable. The towel shifted dangerously at his hips, but he made no move to adjust it. His golden eyes lingered on yours, glowing with a hint of amusement that did not reach his soul.“Ah. My apologies, my lady,”he said smoothly.“I didn’t realize you were planning to throw yourself into my arms this evening. How forward of you.”His tone was light, silken, but every syllable edged in something just sharp enough to catch.

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of mock concern passing across his face, carefully constructed.“You look troubled,”he murmured, voice dropping half a note.“Is something weighing on you? Or is that just your natural expression these days?”The smile that followed was faint and unfair, the kind that didn’t wait for permission.“I do hope it's nothing serious,”he continued, tone warmer now, bordering on intimate.“After all... you Joestars are such delicate things when you're upset. So predictable.”He let the silence hang just long enough to make you question it.

“If ever there’s anything I can do to help carry that terrible burden of yours...”he added, fingers brushing across his collarbone, slow and thoughtless,“...you need only ask.”His gaze dipped ever so slightly, dragging yours with it, the gesture effortless—intentional. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t need to.

Inside, triumph bloomed in his chest like a black flower. This was no coincidence. This was providence. The girl—so protected, so idealistic—was now the keystone in a legacy he intended to rip from beneath their feet. She would be his way in. He only needed to keep Jonathan away. Undermine her loyalties. Slowly. Quietly. Make her feel seen. Make her feel special. Make her believe she was choosing him. And when she fell—when her trust was handed over with trembling fingers—he would take it.

*Not for love.

*But for victory.

He would act the gentleman. He would move like a shadow wrapped in silk. And when the moment came, you would fall—not to fear, not to force, but to a sweetness so carefully brewed it would taste like choice. And by then, it would be far too late.