“I know, darling.” She flashes me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But pretending we aren’t one well-placed bullet away from chaos is just bad manners at this point.”
Lars, sitting across from us with one ankle resting over his knee like this is just another board meeting, finally looks up from his phone. “If anyone shoots you, Vi, I’ll personally drag them to hell.”
She pats his knee with affection. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”
“Thought Enzo was your favorite,” I tease, glancing toward my husband.
“He’s my blood,” she replies. “You have to love blood. Favorites, you earn.”
Enzo finally cracks a small smile, his thumb still moving against my hand. “You’re all insane.”
“Absolutely,” Violette says lightly, “but at least we’re all fabulously dressed.”
I glance around the SUV—the subtle armor beneath Lars’s designer suit, the glint of steel at Enzo’s side, the clutch at my feet holding a flash drive that could topple a dynasty—and I feel it. That slow, surreal sense of walking toward something irreversible.But also this strange, beautiful calm. Because I’m not doing it alone.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” I say quietly, more to myself than anyone.
“You’re about to burn down your father’s legacy,” Lars says. “And expose half the city while you’re at it. You’re a queen, Zara. Start acting like it.”
“She already is,” Enzo says quietly.
I look over at him, and the tension creeping up my spine eases, just a little.
The car pulls to a crawl, swallowed by the glow of spotlights and the distant chaos of press barricades. Through the tinted glass, I catch the shimmer of camera flashes bouncing off marble columns and chrome fixtures. The Marchetti name was always going to draw a crowd. But tonight they’re here for blood.
My blood.
“Someone warn the lighting crew not to pan too close,” Violette says, dabbing beneath her eye with the pad of her ring finger. “If I see so much as one wrinkle on the jumbotron, I’ll make Vogue retract that photo.”
Lars doesn’t look up from his phone. “You threatened to make your plastic surgeon disappear last week. Pretty sure lighting’s the least of your worries.”
“I didn’t threaten him. I incentivized him.” She turns to me with a glittering smile. “You look stunning, darling. And dangerous. Like you could bankrupt a man just by blinking.”
I swallow hard, managing a small smile. My palms are damp even though I haven’t moved. My chest tightens against the corseted gown, every breath reminding me what’s at stake.
The lie at the bottom of the trashcan. The life in my womb. The truth I’m about to hurl like a grenade into the world my father built.
“Hey.” Enzo’s voice slices through the rising panic. He leans toward me, one hand sliding into mine. “We go in together. We leave together. Got it?”
I nod, eyes locking with his. “Got it.”
The SUV stops and the door opens. Enzo exits first, tall and composed, jaw sharp and clean-shaven, not a single ounce of nerves visible. A king stepping into his kingdom. Then his hand appears again, palm up, waiting for mine.
I let him help me out, the crowd’s voices swelling at the sight of us. I feel the moment they register who we are, why we’re here. I feel the attention cling to me like perfume—sweet, expensive, dangerous.
He pulls me in close, lips grazing my ear as cameras scream for our names.
“You good?” he asks, warm.
No, I’m not good.
I’m pregnant.
I’m wearing a gown that makes it hard to breathe.
And in less than an hour, I’m going to light my father’s legacy on fire in front of the entire city.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You?”
