Ana woke alone.
The satin sheets were tangled around her legs, and the smell of Hayden still lingered on the pillow beside her. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the Sicilian sun, and her body ached—not from pain, but from the relentless, consuming way he touched her.
Every inch of her felt claimed. Branded. Loved in the cruelest way.
And she hated herself for loving it.
She sat up slowly, pressing her palm against the empty side of the bed. It was cold. He'd left early.
Again.
Sometimes, he didn't say goodbye. Other times, he whispered possessive promises against her neck before vanishing into the shadows.
But this morning, he'd left something else.
There—tucked under her pillow—was a folded note.
Her breath caught as she unfolded it, the familiar scrawl jagged across the page:
> "Tell me, Ana. If I burned down your world… would you still crawl through the ashes to find me?
> —H."
Her stomach twisted.
Hayden didn't write love letters. He didn't *ask* questions. So why this?
She crumpled the note in her hand, but she didn't throw it away. She tucked it in the drawer of the nightstand beside the crumpled photo of her as a child—the one Hayden had dug up, printed, and silently given her weeks ago. A reminder of who she'd been. Or maybe who she wasn't allowed to be anymore.
She moved to the window, staring out at the sweeping cliffs and sea. Below, guards paced the gardens. A drone buzzed in the sky. Hayden's empire wrapped around her like chains—gilded, invisible, and real.
Last night had been… different.
There was no pretending anymore. No illusion of a marriage based on anything other than control and chaos. He *wanted* her. But not gently. Not sweetly.
Hayden made love like a man carving his name into her soul.
And she let him.
Because a sick part of her didn't want anyone else.
There was a knock on the door.
She turned quickly. "Yes?"
It was Sofia, one of the few women Hayden allowed in the house. Former assassin. Now, apparently, his "housekeeper."
"There's someone asking for you," Sofia said, her voice even. "He says he knows your mother."
Ana's blood ran cold.
"My mother?"
"She gave him your name once. He said if I told you the phrase *"moonlight in Madrid,"* you'd know it's real."
Ana staggered back a step.
That was a phrase her mother whispered when she tucked her in as a child. The one phrase that meant safety. Home. Truth.
"Where is he?" she asked, breathless.
"In the wine cellar."
"Why the cellar?"
"Because Hayden doesn't know he's here."
Ana's heart slammed against her ribs.
This was madness. Another test? A trap?
But she moved before she could think—throwing on a robe and slippers, and following Sofia through the winding stone halls down into the cold, damp underbelly of the villa.
The cellar was lit by a single bulb. Dust and age clung to the walls.
A man stood near the barrels—tall, older, with grey streaks at his temples and eyes that looked like they'd seen too much.
He turned when she entered.
"Anastasia Nicholas," he said softly.
"No one calls me that," she whispered.
"I knew your mother. Before she married into power. Before she disappeared into your father's shadow."
Ana stared, stunned. "Who are you?"
"I'm the man who tried to save her. And now I'm here to save you."
Silence stretched like a wire.
Then footsteps pounded above them.
Hayden.
He knew.