"My three-year-old maid’s daughter secretly led me upstairs and showed me the woman I planned to marry threatening her mother and implying she could make the little girl disappear. Vivien thought no one important was listening, but she had made one mistake: the child knew exactly which man in that house everyone feared.

The morning of the wedding dawned cold and gray, thick clouds rolling over the city skyline like a bruised omen.

The estate was a hive of chaotic activity. Florists rushed through the grand hallways carrying massive arrangements of white lilies. Caterers shouted orders in the kitchen.

I stood in the shadows of the second-floor gallery, looking down into the main parlor.

Vivien was standing on a small velvet pedestal, surrounded by three frantic tailors making final adjustments to her wedding dress. It was an extravagant masterpiece of white silk, heavy lace, and thousands of hand-sewn pearls. She looked like a queen preparing for her coronation.

She stared at her reflection in the massive antique mirror, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph plastered across her beautiful face. She believed she had won. She believed that by midnight, I would be dead from a poisoned toast, the Morettis would storm the estate, and she would inherit my entire empire as the grieving, legal widow.

"It's flawless," Vivien declared, running her hands over the heavy silk skirt.

I watched her, a dark, heavy silence settling over me. She would never walk down the aisle in that dress. She would never wear my name.

I turned away from the parlor and walked down the back corridor toward the servant's quarters.

I found Elena in the small, chaotic staff kitchen, preparing an emergency meal for the children in the house. She looked exhausted, her apron stained, her hands trembling slightly as she chopped vegetables.

"Elena," I said softly, stepping into the room.

She jumped, nearly dropping the knife, her eyes wide with lingering terror from the incident at the garden gate. "Mr. Duca. I'm sorry, I was just—"

"Stop cooking," I commanded gently.

She froze, wiping her hands nervously on her apron. "Sir?"

"Gather your belongings. Pack a bag for Mia," I instructed, my voice low and serious. "Nico is waiting for you in the underground garage. He is taking you to a secure safe house outside the city until this is over."