Power. Grace. Wounds no man ever sees.
And now, it’s mine.
The buzzing finally stops. The artist wipes the blood and ink from my side with a sterile cloth. I look down, and it stares back at me like a vow.Never again. Never again will I allow a woman to get this close to me.
I leave cash on the tray and step back into the cold morning light. My head’s still pounding, but something inside me is finally clear. Now, I get back to work.
I’ve already started carving out my own path, one that will turn me into a king.
The kind of king who doesn’t answer to anyone. The kind of king whose name opens doors. The kind of king who walks into a room, and when he looks at a girl like Sophia Orsi, her parents don’t scowl or threaten.
They thank him.
They’ll beg for their daughters to catch my eye. To be chosen.
Because power bends rules, and I’m done living by anyone else’s.
I won’t be the boy cast aside anymore. I’m going to build something they can’t touch. And when it’s done—when I’ve climbed high enough—she’ll see me. Not as the ghost who saved her in the dark. But as the man who owns the city.
A year later…
Maison Étoile glitters like a palace of excess. With marble floors polished to mirror-shine and ceilings so high they disappear into gold-accented clouds, it feels more like Versailles than a mall—the air hums with laughter, champagne clinks, and the swish of silk skirts. Security here is tighter than at the White House, and the clientele? Exclusively handpicked. One million a year just to shop here.
Izzy twirls in front of a wall of mirrors, holding up a slinky pink Versace gown against her frame. Gigi sips champagne, already buried under armfuls of garment bags and luxury boxes. They chatter around me like birds, their voices full of laughter and glittery plans. And I smile. I do. Because anytime away from Roberto is good. Because pretending is easier in heels.
But my ribs ache—a dull, throbbing ache beneath the layers of Chanel and Dior. I shift slightly to ease the pressure, and the movement makes Gigi glance at me.
"You okay, Soph?" she asks lightly, lifting her glass to her lips.
"Of course," I lie. "Just a little tight in the corset."
She laughs and goes back to debating between two pairs of stilettos. I want to tell her. God, I want to tell her. But I can’t. I’m not even sure what I’d say. That my husband, the man everyone thinks is charming and generous, lost his temper last night because I wore the wrong lipstick to dinner? That he said I embarrassed him in front of Enrico?
No. That would ruin the day. And days like this… they’re rare—days when I almost feel like a woman with friends, not a possession on loan.
"I’m starving," Izzy announces. "Should we grab lunch at the rooftop bistro?"
"Let’s," Gigi says, looping her arm through mine. "Soph, you’re coming, right?"
I nod, willing my smile to stay in place.
"Yes. I wouldn’t miss it."
But as we head toward the private elevator, past glittering storefronts and glass cases lined with five-figure jewelry, I can’t help but wonder—what would they sayif they knew?
What would they do?
The elevator doors slide open to sunlight and linen-draped tables, and just like that, the questions vanish behind the clink of glassware.
The rooftop bistro at Maison Étoile is all white umbrellas, lavender sprigs, and panoramic views of the skyline. It smells like fresh basil and sunshine, and for a moment, I almost forget the bruises under my dress.
We’re seated near the edge, velvet ropes keeping the common world out. The waiter brings us a bottle of rosé without asking. It’s always chilled. Always perfect.
"I swear," Gigi says, pouring herself a glass, "if Luciano looks at me like that again, I’m going to climb him like a tree."
Izzy chokes on her water. "Jesus, Gigi."
Gigi shrugs, totally unrepentant. "What? He’s hot. He’s dangerous. He calls meSignorina DeLunain that voice that could melt concrete. And I know he’s thinking filthy things."
