I chose the midnight blue velvet.

It was the color of a bruise before it turned black. The fabric was heavy, sweeping slightly on the floor as I walked, but the weight felt like armor.

I clasped the sapphires around my neck. They had belonged to Donato’s late wife, a woman who had died before she could see her son grow into a disappointment.

I didn't look like a victim. I looked like the ocean right before a storm.

I walked into the ballroom.

The air shifted.

Conversations didn't just stop; they were severed.

I felt hundreds of eyes on me. They were looking for the cracks. They were looking for the broken wife who had been outbid for her own heritage.

I gave them nothing.

Antoine Dubois, a French associate of the Family, bowed his head as I passed.

"The Queen returns," he murmured.

I didn't smile. Queens don't smile at peasants.

I scanned the room and locked eyes with Alessandro.

He was holding a champagne glass, his knuckles white against the stem. He looked at me with a mixture of hunger and fear. He hadn't expected me to show up.

He definitely hadn't expected me to look like this.

Aria was standing next to him. She was wearing the auction necklace.

It looked ridiculous on her. The diamonds were too heavy for her delicate, bird-like frame. They didn't sit on her skin; they choked it.

She saw Alessandro looking at me.

Her jaw tightened. She whispered something in his ear, her hand clawing at his bicep, claiming territory.

Alessandro didn't look away from me.

Aria’s face twisted. She let go of him and marched toward me.

The crowd parted. They smelled blood.

"Katarina," she said. Her voice was too high, too sweet. It grated on my nerves like sand in a wound.

"You look... heavy."

She touched the massive diamond necklace at her throat.

"A rock doesn't make you special, Aria," I said, my voice low enough that only she could hear. "It just makes you expensive."

Her smile faltered.

"You think you're so high above me," she hissed, stepping closer. "But you're still the woman he won't touch. You're still the furniture."

"And you are the woman he bought," I countered. "Furniture lasts. Purchases get returned."

Aria’s eyes narrowed into slits.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone.

"You really don't know when to quit, do you?" she whispered.

She tapped the screen and shoved the phone in my face.

I looked.

It was a video. Grainy, low-light.

It was me. And Alessandro.

Two years ago. Our anniversary. The only night that year he had touched me with anything resembling passion.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"He filmed these," Aria smirked. "He sent them to me. We watch them sometimes. We laugh at how desperate you look. Begging for scraps of love."

My stomach turned over.

He had shared our bed with her.

"Leave tonight," Aria said, her voice dripping with venom. "Leave the country. Or this goes to the press. I'll ruin you."

She pulled the phone back.

I looked at Alessandro across the room. He was watching us, oblivious to the knife his mistress was twisting in my gut.

I looked back at Aria.

"Do it," I said.

Her eyes widened.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said do it. But remember one thing, Aria."

I leaned in close.

"When you strike a match in a gas station, you don't get to choose who burns."

Katarina De Luca POV

The sound of my palm striking Aria’s cheek cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot.

The impact was hard enough to snap her head to the side.

The orchestra cut off instantly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

Aria stumbled back, her hand flying to her stinging face. She stared at me, eyes wide with feigned shock, before collapsing to the floor in a calculated heap of white lace.

She looked up at the crowd, tears already streaming, summoning a performance worthy of an Oscar.

"She’s crazy!" she screamed, her voice shrill.

Alessandro was moving toward us now, pushing through the stunned guests. But he was too slow. He was always too slow.

Donato stepped forward from the shadows, his expression tight. He looked annoyed—not at the violence, but at the mess threatening his evening.

"A tribute!" Donato shouted to the DJ, his voice booming to cover the scene. "Play the tribute video! Now!"

The large LED screen behind the stage flickered to life.

It was supposed to be a montage of the Family’s charity work. Smiling orphans. Soup kitchens. The usual tax write-offs designed to buy us sainthood.

It wasn't.

A harsh static shrieked through the speakers.

Then, an image resolved through the digital noise.

It was the video from Aria’s phone.

My breath died in my throat.

It was distorted, edited to zoom in on my face, highlighting my vulnerability. The audio had been amplified to a deafening volume. My own voice, soft and intimate, boomed through the cavernous ballroom.

Moans. Breathless whispers of love.

It was a public execution of my dignity.

The room went dead silent. Heavier than the silence before. This was the silence of a grave.

I froze. I couldn't move. I felt naked, skinned alive in front of the predators I was supposed to rule.

Alessandro stopped halfway to the stage. He looked at the screen, then at me. His face was a mask of horror. He hadn't done this. He was stupid, but he wasn't suicidal.

Aria was still on the floor, but I saw the smile curling behind her hand.

She had uploaded it. She had pulled the trigger.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the ground to swallow me whole.

A violent crash shattered the humiliation.

A heavy wooden chair sailed through the air, smashing into the center of the LED screen.

Sparks showered down like rain. The image distorted, fractured into jagged pixels, and then died into blessed blackness.

I opened my eyes.

Julian Moreau stood on the stage.

He was a silhouette of pure, unadulterated rage. His suit jacket was discarded, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He looked like the God of War made flesh.

He jumped down from the stage and marched toward me. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, terrified of the violence radiating from him.

He didn't look at Alessandro. He didn't look at Aria.

He saw only me.

He took off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around my trembling shoulders. It was heavy and warm. It smelled of expensive tobacco, cedar, and the sharp tang of gunpowder.

He pulled the lapels tight, shielding me from the prying eyes of the vultures surrounding us.

Then, he turned to the room.

His voice was calm. Terrifyingly, lethally calm.

"She is mine," he said.

He scanned the faces of the Capos, the politicians, the rivals—daring them to breathe.

"If anyone touches her, if anyone speaks of this, you had best pray for death. Because I will not be as kind as God."

He put his arm around my waist, pulling me firmly into his side. His grip was iron, an anchor in the storm.

"Walk tall, chérie," he whispered against my ear, his voice a low rumble. "Do not look down."

I lifted my chin.

I let him lead me out of the ballroom, leaving the wreckage behind.

For the first time in my marriage, I wasn't walking alone.

Katarina De Luca POV:

The night air was sharp, biting at my exposed skin, but Julian’s suit jacket draped over my shoulders felt like a furnace against the chill.

We had just reached the bottom of the manor steps when I heard the frantic slap of running footsteps behind us.

"Katarina!"

Alessandro.

He sounded breathless. Desperate.

Julian stopped. He turned slowly, deliberately putting his broad body between me and my husband.

"Back off," Julian said, his voice low and dangerous.

Alessandro skidded to a halt on the gravel. He looked wrecked. His tie was crooked, his usually perfect hair wild.

"She’s my wife," Alessandro panted, his chest heaving. "We need to fix this. People are talking."

"Let them talk," Julian said.

"I didn't know Aria would do that," Alessandro pleaded, trying to look past Julian to find me. "I can fix it, Katarina. I swear."

I stepped out from the safety of Julian's shadow.

"You filmed it," I said. My voice was steady. Dead.

Alessandro flinched as if struck.

"It was a moment of weakness! We have history, Kat. I protected you for years!"

"Protected me?" I laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "You threw me to the wolves so you could feel like a man."

"I love you!" he shouted.

The words hung in the air, grotesque and heavy.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out the small digital recorder I had taken from the study.

I pressed play.

Alessandro’s voice, tinny and distorted, drifted into the night.

*"It's just a broken leg. She's had worse. Don't make it a tragedy."*

Mark’s voice answered. *"The buckle was filed down."*

Alessandro again. *"Aria just wanted to teach her a lesson. Bury it."*

I pressed stop.

Alessandro turned the color of ash.

"You knew," I whispered. "You knew she broke my leg. You called it a lesson."

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He looked down at his hands, as if realizing they were covered in my blood.

Julian stepped forward and shoved Alessandro hard in the chest. Alessandro stumbled back, nearly falling.

"Don't insult her," Julian growled. "Don't speak to her."

"She is De Luca," Alessandro whispered, his voice cracking.

"No," I said.

I took the recorder and dropped it on the pavement. With a sharp crunch, I crushed it under my heel.

"I am tired of being your statue."

I turned to Julian.

"Take me away from here."

Julian nodded. He opened the car door for me.

As we drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror.

Alessandro was standing alone on the steps, a small, dark figure against the massive, empty house.

He looked like a man who had just realized he was holding nothing but a handful of dust.