Morning sunlight slashed through the massive windows, warming the tangled sheets. Giovanna opened her eyes.

A heavy, muscular arm was clamped around her waist like an iron band. Her back was pressed tight against a furnace of a chest.

She didn't scream. She didn't thrash. She moved with agonizing slowness, rolling over within his tight grip until she faced him.

Damien looked peaceful in sleep. Giovanna stared at his profile, her heart doing a slow, heavy thump in her chest. She raised her hand, her fingertip lightly tracing the sharp bridge of his nose.

His breathing was slow and even. But the rigid line of his jaw gave him away. He was awake. He was faking it.

Damien's mind was racing. He analyzed every micro-movement she made. He waited for the knife in the back, the screaming match, the inevitable demand for a divorce. This sudden, docile behavior had to be a trap.

Giovanna saw the slight flutter of his thick eyelashes. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.

She leaned in. Her lips brushed against the hard bump of his Adam's apple, leaving a feather-light kiss on his throat.

Damien's body jerked. The act was over. His dark eyes snapped open, blazing with a dangerous intensity.

His hand shot up, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist. He squeezed, the pressure bordering on painful. His eyes searched her face, looking for the lie.

Giovanna didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her head and rubbed her soft cheek against the rough palm of the hand holding her captive. She looked at him like a lazy, content cat.

"You're hurting me, D," she murmured. Her morning voice was raspy, heavy with sleep and completely devoid of fear. It sounded like a pout.

Damien dropped her wrist like it was on fire. He stared at the faint red marks his fingers left on her pale skin. A flash of regret darkened his eyes.

Before he could speak, a sharp, aggressive knock hammered against the heavy double doors of the master bedroom.

"Breakfast is served." Mrs. Gable's cold, rigid voice bled through the wood. The head housekeeper didn't bother hiding her disdain.

Damien's expression instantly turned murderous. He knew Mrs. Gable hated Giovanna. Usually, this was the exact moment Giovanna would start throwing lamps and screaming about being a prisoner.

He sat up, his broad shoulders tensing, ready to absorb the explosion he knew was coming.

Giovanna placed her hand flat against his bare chest. She pushed him back against the pillows. Her touch was light, but the command in her eyes was absolute.

She slid out of bed. She grabbed Damien's discarded black dress shirt from the floor and pulled it on. It swallowed her small frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh.

She walked barefoot to the door and yanked it open.

Mrs. Gable stood in the hallway, her chin raised in a permanent sneer. The sneer vanished the second she saw Giovanna.

The housekeeper's eyes widened, taking in the oversized men's shirt and the very obvious, dark red bruises blooming along Giovanna's collarbone.

"It is Mrs. Blackwood to you," Giovanna said. Her voice was ice. It wasn't a request; it was an executioner's sentence.

Mrs. Gable opened her mouth, her face flushing red. "I-"

"Shut up," Giovanna cut her off. She stepped closer, invading the older woman's space. The dead, hollow look in Giovanna's eyes-a look of absolute, chilling authority that promised utter destruction-made Mrs. Gable physically step back. "Go down to the kitchen. Tell the chef to prepare two American breakfasts. Now."

Mrs. Gable swallowed hard. Her hands shook. She bowed her head awkwardly. "Yes, Mrs. Blackwood." She turned and practically ran down the grand staircase.

Giovanna shut the door. The loud click echoed in the quiet room.

When she turned back around, the ice in her eyes melted. A sweet, bright smile lit up her face.

Damien was sitting up against the headboard. His eyes were locked on her, tracking her every move. He looked at her like she was a completely different species, something fascinating and terrifying.

Giovanna walked back to the bed. She crawled up the mattress and straddled his hips. She looped her arms around his neck.

"Did I act like a proper Mrs. Blackwood just now?" she asked softly.

Damien's Adam's apple bobbed. He didn't use words. His large hands grabbed the back of her head, pulling her down, and he answered her with a kiss that tasted like raw possession.

Giovanna stood in the massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the flashy, revealing clothes she used to wear to annoy Damien. She pulled out a tailored, burgundy Ivy League-style dress. The high collar perfectly hid the marks on her neck.

When she walked out, Damien was waiting by the bedroom door. He wore a dark, bespoke suit that cost more than most people's houses. His eyes swept over her, still calculating, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Giovanna didn't hesitate. She walked up to him and slid her hand through the crook of his arm.

They walked down the sweeping marble staircase together.

The maids dusting the foyer stopped moving. They stared, their mouths slightly open, shocked to see the master of the house and his volatile wife walking arm-in-arm without screaming at each other.

They entered the long dining room. Damien pulled out a chair for her at the mahogany table before taking his seat at the head.

A maid placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Giovanna. Damien had always ordered it for her, thinking she liked it.

Giovanna pushed the coffee away. She reach for the glass of warm, sweet milk meant for her oatmeal. She lifted the glass and playfully clinked it against Damien's coffee mug.

Before Damien could process the change, a low, sharp beep sounded from the earpiece of the head of security standing by the door.

The security chief stepped forward. "Boss. Elara Vang is at the front gate."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Damien's face turned to stone. "Deny entry."

Giovanna knew Elara would come. She reached across the table and placed her hand over Damien's clenched fist.

"D," she said softly, her thumb rubbing over his white knuckles. "Let her in. I have some things I need to say to my dear sister."

Damien stared at her hand on his. He looked up, his dark eyes searching hers. He hated it, but he gave a sharp nod to the security chief.

Three minutes later, the dining room doors burst open.

Elara rushed in. She wore a pristine white designer skirt suit. Her eyes were already rimmed with red, her face the perfect picture of frantic worry.

She completely ignored Damien. She ran straight toward Giovanna, reaching out to grab her hands.

"Gio!" Elara cried out, her voice trembling with fake tears. "Are you okay? Did he force you again last night?"

The silence in the dining room became suffocating. The killing intent rolling off Damien's body was a physical weight in the air.

Elara waited for the explosion. She waited for Giovanna to scream, to throw her milk at Damien, to demand to leave.

Giovanna didn't move. She picked up a linen napkin, elegantly dabbed the corner of her mouth, and slowly stood up.

She sidestepped Elara's reaching hands. She looked at her sister the way one looks at a rotting piece of meat on the sidewalk.

Elara's hands fell to her sides. A cold spike of panic hit her stomach. This wasn't the script.

Giovanna took a step forward, closing the distance.

Without a single change in her expression, Giovanna raised her right hand and slapped Elara across the face.

The crack of skin against skin echoed off the high ceiling like a gunshot. The force of the blow threw Elara off balance. She crashed hard onto the polished wood floor.

The maids gasped. Even Damien's eyes widened a fraction of an inch.

Elara held her rapidly swelling cheek. She stared up at Giovanna, genuine shock replacing the fake tears. "Are you crazy?! I'm trying to help you!"

Giovanna looked down at her. A cruel, mocking smile touched her lips.

"Help me?" Giovanna's voice was crystal clear, making sure every person in the room heard her. "Or help me piss off my husband?"

She turned her head. She looked right at Damien. Her smile softened into something incredibly warm.

"Listen closely, Elara," Giovanna said, her eyes never leaving Damien's. "He is my beloved husband. I will not tolerate you disrespecting him in our home."

Damien's chest hitched. The dark, violent storm in his eyes vanished, replaced by a burning, obsessive heat. The words 'beloved husband' wrapped around his heart and squeezed tight.

Elara sat on the floor, clutching her red cheek. Large, fat tears spilled over her lashes. The victim routine was her default setting.

She looked past Giovanna, aiming her watery eyes directly at Damien sitting at the head of the table.

"Damien, please," Elara sobbed, her voice shaking. "Look at her. She's having another episode. She's not mentally stable. I was only trying to protect her from herself."

Damien didn't blink. He felt absolutely nothing for the crying woman on his floor, except a deep, sickening disgust that she was trying to paint his wife as crazy.

He pushed his chair back. The heavy wood scraped loudly against the floor. He stood up, his massive frame radiating pure violence. He was going to drag her out by her hair himself.

Giovanna saw his muscles coil. She stepped back, placing her hand flat against the center of Damien's chest. She patted his silk tie twice, a silent command to let her handle it.

She turned and walked to the edge of the dining table. She picked up the smartphone Damien had given her as a wedding gift, a device she had previously thrown in a drawer and ignored.

Her thumb swiped across the screen, pulling up the blocked messages folder she had ignored in her past life.

She spun around and shoved the glowing screen inches from Elara's tear-stained face.

"Let's read this one," Giovanna said, her voice dead flat. "'Gio, if he touches you tonight, smash a vase over his head. I have a car waiting outside.'"

Elara's breath hitched. The blood drained from her face, leaving her pale and sickly. She never thought Giovanna would expose their private texts.

Giovanna scrolled down with her thumb. "Oh, here's a good one. 'Remember, the harder you fight, the more disgusted he'll get. He'll divorce you eventually.'"

The maids in the room shifted uncomfortably. The pity in their eyes vanished, replaced by hard, judgmental stares aimed at Elara.

Damien's hands curled into fists at his sides. His knuckles turned bone-white. The puzzle pieces slammed together in his head. The source of Giovanna's suicidal rebellion wasn't just her; it was the poison being dripped into her ear.

"That's fake!" Elara shrieked, scrambling backward on the floor. She lunged, trying to snatch the phone. "I never sent those!"

Giovanna easily sidestepped the clumsy grab. She shoved Elara's shoulder hard, sending her tumbling back onto the floor.

Giovanna slipped the phone into her dress pocket. She looked down, her eyes filled with pure contempt. "Fake? Do you want me to have the telecom company pull the IP logs and cell tower pings?"

Elara's mind went blank. Her perfect, innocent sister routine was crumbling into dust.

Giovanna crouched down. She leaned in close, her lips hovering right next to Elara's ear.

"I know," Giovanna whispered, her voice a deadly hiss meant only for Elara. "I know you wanted me to run away so you could crawl into his bed."

Elara's pupils dilated in absolute terror. Her chest heaved. She stared at Giovanna like she was looking at a ghost.

Giovanna stood up. She brushed her hands together, as if wiping away dirt.

She looked around the room, making eye contact with the maids who had been secretly reporting to Elara. Her gaze was like a physical blade.

"Take a good look," Giovanna said, her voice ringing with absolute authority. "This is the kind, innocent second daughter of the Vang family."

Elara knew she was losing. She needed an out. She grabbed the fabric over her chest, her breathing turning into ragged, loud gasps.

She slumped against the leg of a heavy dining chair, letting out a weak, pathetic moan. The fake heart attack.

In her past life, Giovanna would have panicked and begged Damien to call a doctor.

Now, Giovanna just stared at her. A cold, bloodthirsty smile stretched across her face.

She turned her head to look at the security chief standing by the door.

"Since she's so sick," Giovanna ordered, her tone casual and lethal, "call her an ambulance. And while we wait, throw her out the front gates."