So I agreed.
I smiled.
I survived.
But that night—hours after I said my vows—I stood on the balcony of a different hotel, staring out at a different sea of lights, and all I could think about was Massimo.
Where he was.
Why he had left me.
How he could have vanished without a word.
I cried then. Not for the first time. Not for the last. Up until the moment I walked down the aisle, I'd been hoping—stupidly, desperately—that he would appear. That he would interrupt the ceremony. That he would take one look at me and end the farce.
When the priest said the wordsor forever hold your peace, my lungs locked. I held my breath through Carter's careful, chaste kiss. Through the applause. Through the congratulations and well-wishes and the sound of my own name changing forever.
I knew—I knew—that the moment I allowed myself to breathe freely, I would fall apart.
So I didn't.
I held it in until I was alone on that balcony, high above a city that never cared who it destroyed, and only then did I let the tears come. They came hard. Silent. Uncontrollable. I cried for the man who didn't come. For the life I wasn't allowed to choose. For the girl I had been that morning, who still believed someone would save her.
And now, standing here again, years later, staring at the same glittering illusion, I realize something that makes my chest ache even worse. I've been holding my breath ever since. I press my hands to my face, drag in a breath, then another. Tell myself over and over that I'm not the girl who stood on that balcony anymore.
That girl learned how to endure.
This woman?
This woman is done enduring.
Amauri needs more than my survival now. He needs my teeth. My memory. My willingness to burn whatever stands between us. I straighten, the city lights blur for a moment before sharpening again. Whatever this war becomes—between Massimo's world and my father's, between the past and the present—I'm already in it. But I'll be damned if I let them moveme around like a pawn any longer. I'm a fucking Queen, one who doesn't need a king, and they will learn that.
My hand drifts to the band on my finger. Carter's ring. Heavy. Cold. A symbol that never fit, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself it did. I stare at it for a long moment, remembering the girl who slid it on, telling herself she was being practical. Strategic. Protecting her child. I was surviving. Not living. Slowly, I twist it free. It leaves a faint indentation behind, pale against my skin. A ghost of pressure. For a second, I just hold it. The weight of it. The lie of it. It was supposed to make me safe. Instead, it made me small. I step closer to the balcony railing. The night air brushes cool against my face. Maybe it'll bring luck to whoever finds it. God knows it didn't bring me any. And then I let it go. It disappears into the dark without a sound. No ceremony. No regret. Just release.
I turn back inside. Massimo's office waits exactly where I left it, cool, controlled, expectant. I grab the laptop from his desk and carry it with me like something fragile and dangerous at the same time, then sink onto the couch. The leather is soft and expensive. My stomach growls, loud enough to startle me.
When was the last time I ate?
I can't remember. It feels like forever. The thought of real food turns my stomach, but I know better than to ignore it. I push myself up and head for the kitchen. The fridge is stocked like a fantasy: fresh fruit, charcuterie, leftovers plated like they were never meant to be reheated. Food that would make anyone else's mouth water. It does nothing for me. I stare at it, detached, then reach for a yogurt. Simple. Manageable. From the wine fridge, I grab a bottle without looking too closely at the label. I don't bother with a glass.
Back on the couch, I eat a few spoonfuls, take a pull straight from the bottle, and feel the edge of the world soften just enough to breathe. The laptop warms on my thighs as it wakes. I openmy email first. The inbox refreshes. I'm done holding my breath. Now I'm hunting.
I don't open Marianne's email again. Not yet. I don't know how to respond, or where I'd even meet her. I could tell her to come here—if Sean is any indication, this place runs on Massimo's permission, and mine by extension—but I look down at myself and snort softly.
I can't meet her in his shirt.
The thought of asking Max to take me back to my house to get some of my things makes my chest seize. I have no idea what condition the house is in. I'm not ready to step back into that yet.
Morning, then. I'll deal with Marianne in the morning.
Massimo mentioned something about Max and shopping. I'll use that. I close the email and force myself back to the work I came here to do. The files are endless. Campaign records stretching back years. Decades. I start at the beginning—before the Senate, before the spotlight—when my father was just a lobbyist, learning how power moved. Donations trickled in at first. Small checks. Predictable names.
It's tedious. My eyes burn. The wine bottle grows lighter in my hand. Payments to printers. Marketing firms. Consultants. The occasional plumber, a painter, and maintenance invoices that make sense on paper. The kind of expenses no one ever questions. I still do my due diligence, though, and Google every single name. Some repeat over and over, making them a bit easier; others only appear once. A cell phone repair shop that's still in business. I look at the storefront. Granted, five thousand sounds high for a cell repair, but from the looks of it, they sell computer equipment too. Still, this is how you hide truth, bury it in the ordinary.
I scroll. And scroll. Hours pass without meaning. My eyelids grow heavy. My head dips forward once, twice. I consider closingthe laptop, calling it a night, telling myself I'll see clearer in the morning?—
My eyes fall on an entry.
