The rain hadn't stopped.
It hissed against the windowpanes of the Vieri estate, a steady rhythm that should've been soothing—but felt more like a ticking clock counting down.
Lana stood barefoot in the middle of the master suite, still in her slip, her wedding dress folded carefully across the settee. Her phone trembled in her palm.
Two messages.
One threat.
One dare.
You made your deal. But do you know what it cost?
Ask him about the three million missing from Vieri Global. Ask him what happened in London.
London.
She hadn't heard a single word about it in all the research she'd done.
No articles. No rumors.
Which made the warning even more dangerous.
A cold chill crept up her spine.
She deleted the texts and powered the phone off. But the questions stayed. Sharp and alive.
She didn't knock when she left her room. Just walked straight down the hall—feet silent against the floor, silk robe trailing behind her.
The light under Dante's study door glowed faintly.
She pushed it open without asking.
He was standing by the fireplace, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A half-empty tumbler of something expensive sat on the desk beside an open file.
His gaze lifted immediately.
"You don't sleep in your own room on our wedding night?" he asked coolly.
"I got a message," she said, voice tight. "Anonymous. Telling me to ask about missing funds. And London."
His face didn't move. Not even a twitch.
"Do you get blackmailers often?" she added.
"No more than I get stubborn wives barging into my study uninvited."
She didn't flinch.
"This isn't a game," she said.
"It never was."
"Then tell me the truth."
"I don't owe you—"
"You married me," she snapped. "Put a ring on my finger. You made me your wife. You owe me something."
A long silence settled between them.
He set the glass down.
"London was a cover-up," he said finally. "Three years ago, my father made a deal with an arms dealer under the guise of a charity investment. It went bad. Very bad. People got hurt. Money disappeared."
"How much?"
"Too much."
"Three million?"
He looked at her.
The silence was answer enough.
She stepped closer. "And now?"
"Now, we play the part. Keep the board calm. Keep the vultures distracted with our perfect marriage."
She folded her arms. "You're using me as a shield."
He didn't deny it.
"And what happens when they find out it's fake?"
"They won't."
Her heart thudded.
"But it is fake," she whispered. "Isn't it?"
He didn't say yes.
He didn't say no.
Instead, he closed the distance between them slowly, stopping just a breath away. The heat from his body was magnetic. Dangerous.
His voice dropped to a low murmur. "Do you want it to be fake, Lana?"
She blinked.
Her heart betrayed her—fluttering against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
"I don't know what I want," she whispered.
He reached up, gently brushed a stray curl behind her ear.
"You should figure it out. Quickly."
Then, without another word, he stepped past her and disappeared into the hall.
The next morning came with no answers.
Only tension.
Only more eyes.
Lana sat beside Dante in the Vieri boardroom, now as Mrs. Vieri—no longer invisible, no longer dismissed. And yet, somehow, still underestimated.
Alessandro Vieri sat at the head of the table, flanked by executives who'd flown in from London, Singapore, and Zurich. Men with ruthless smiles and suspicious eyes.
"We've received word from our financial auditing team in Geneva," one of them said. "There's been another delay in clearing the discrepancies."
"Another?" Dante said sharply.
Alessandro folded his hands. "It's beginning to raise questions."
"We'll handle it internally," Dante said. "No need to alert the press."
A subtle glance from one of the men landed on Lana.
"And the… marriage?" he asked delicately. "It certainly arrived at a convenient time."
The implication was razor-edged.
Lana smiled softly. "Convenient timing, yes. But inconvenient truths often lead to stronger unions."
Matteo smirked from the end of the table.
Alessandro looked displeased.
Dante, surprisingly, said nothing.
After the meeting, Lana stepped into the elevator with Matteo, who offered her a sideways glance.
"You handled them well," he said.
"I'm not just a pretty distraction."
"No, but you are a distraction. Whether you mean to be or not."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"No. Just remind you that you're in a house full of wolves."
"And you're what? The nice one?"
"I'm the one who doesn't lie about what he is."
They reached the lobby.
"By the way," he added, "if you really want to know what happened in London, don't ask Dante."
She turned to him. "Then who?"
"Ask Elena."
The mere mention of the woman's name curdled something in her chest.
That night, Lana found an invitation card slid under her bedroom door.
Vieri Foundation Gala – 8 PM
Dress Code: Black. Optional Weapon: Charm.
No signature.
But there was no mistaking the writing. Matteo's. Bold and careless.
She slipped into a long black gown—sleek, sleeveless, backless—and applied her makeup like armor.
The gala was hosted in the east wing of the estate. Chatter rose like bubbles in champagne flutes. Music drifted from the string quartet.
She entered the room alone.
Dante was already there, speaking with investors near the bar. His eyes found her immediately.
Then narrowed.
She didn't smile.
Didn't wave.
She walked past him like she didn't feel his gaze burn through her.
"Elena Monroe is here," Camilla whispered as she passed. "Don't give her anything she can use."
"She's already used everything."
"Then don't give her your silence."
Moments later, Lana felt the chill of presence behind her.
"Stunning choice," Elena said. "Black suits a widow-in-waiting."
Lana didn't turn around.
"Elena," she replied evenly. "Shouldn't you be haunting someone else's marriage?"
"I just like to visit the graves I helped dig."
Now she turned.
"You want him back?" Lana asked. "Or just jealous you weren't enough?"
Elena's lips twitched.
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
Elena leaned in, eyes gleaming. "You're playing house with a man built for war. Just make sure you know where he keeps his weapons."
Later, when the crowd had thinned, Dante approached her on the terrace.
"You've made quite an impression."
She sipped her wine. "You're welcome."
His eyes flicked over her. "Why wear black?"
"I'm in mourning."
"For what?"
She met his gaze. "The truth. My illusions. Take your pick."
His jaw tightened. "I warned you—"
"No, you didn't. You used me. Hid behind me. Lied to me."
"This is business."
"It's my life."
They stared at each other in the moonlight. Neither flinched.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a manila envelope.
"What is this?"
"Proof."
She opened it.
Photos.
Bank statements.
Security footage.
A man in a gray suit handing something to Alessandro Vieri.
A signature.
Three million dollars transferred.
To an offshore account in Dante's name.
She looked up.
"This is you."
"No," he said. "It's a frame job. And I think I know who's behind it."
Her blood ran cold.
He stepped closer, voice low. "You want the truth? Stay with me. Trust me. Help me."
"You don't deserve my help."
"No," he agreed. "But you might need mine."
She clenched the envelope.
"Why?"
He didn't smile.
Because you're in this deeper than you think."