The rain had stopped.
But the air still smelled like secrets.
Lana stood at the window of her suite, the envelope from Dante clutched tightly in her hands. The photos were spread across her vanity table, each one a snapshot of betrayal—a man who looked exactly like her husband signing off on a multi-million-dollar transfer. Offshore. Untraceable. Almost.
But Dante swore he was framed.
And he wanted her to believe it.
That terrified her more than the evidence.
Because some part of her… did.
Downstairs, breakfast had been set in the private conservatory. A luxury she hadn't yet grown used to: fresh croissants, imported cheeses, delicate fruits, a coffee machine that probably cost more than her college tuition.
Dante was already there, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit, a newspaper in one hand, espresso in the other. Not a hair out of place.
She sat without asking.
"I didn't sleep," she said plainly.
"Then we're even."
"You gave me proof you're a criminal and expect me to sleep soundly?"
He didn't look up from the paper. "No. I expect you to look closer."
She narrowed her eyes. "You expect me to be your accomplice."
"No," he said again, setting the paper down. "I expect you to be smart. Smarter than Elena. Smarter than my father. Smarter than everyone watching you right now."
Her stomach turned.
"Someone's watching me?"
He leaned back. "Always."
That was the moment Lana realized her life was no longer her own.
Not really.
Not completely.
Not while she wore the Vieri name.
Later that afternoon, she found Camilla in the library, thumbing through a thick binder labeled "Foundations and Philanthropy."
"Looking for new causes?" Lana asked.
Camilla startled slightly but recovered fast. "Trying to keep the family name clean while the men drag it through the mud."
Lana stepped closer. "Tell me something, Camilla. What happened in London?"
Camilla blinked, then shut the binder slowly.
"You've seen the reports?"
"I've seen the photos. The transfers. The footage."
"Then you've seen lies."
"Dante says he was framed."
Camilla gave her a long, unreadable look. "He was."
"By who?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," Lana said sharply. "Because I'm married to him now. Because if he goes down, I go with him."
Camilla sighed.
"Elena started something she couldn't control," she said. "She wanted Dante back, and when she couldn't have him, she decided no one could. She partnered with someone inside the board. We don't know who. But we're close."
Lana digested the information.
"So why show me?"
"Because he trusts you. Whether he admits it or not."
"He doesn't even like me."
Camilla smirked faintly. "You'd be surprised how much those two things overlap."
That night, Dante returned later than usual. She heard the front door open at 11:23 PM. His footsteps moved through the house without hesitation, straight toward the upstairs hallway.
She stepped out of her room before he reached the door.
"You were gone all day."
"I had business."
She crossed her arms. "With Elena?"
His jaw twitched.
"That's not your concern."
"Everything you do is my concern."
"Don't flatter yourself."
He brushed past her, but she followed him into his room, shutting the door behind them.
"Then let's make it simple," she said, voice low. "What do you want from me, Dante? Really?"
He turned to face her.
And for a moment, just one, his expression wasn't cold or calculated.
It was tired.
"I want this to work," he said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because I'm out of moves. And you're the only one who isn't lying to me."
She stared at him. "You lied to me."
"Yes," he admitted. "And I probably will again. But not tonight."
Something broke between them then. Or maybe it was forged. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
Without thinking, she stepped forward and kissed him.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't gentle.
It was hungry and furious and inevitable.
And he didn't pull away.
He gripped her waist like he'd been waiting for her to do that. Like she was the one thing he couldn't fake.
When they broke apart, breathless, she touched her forehead to his.
"This doesn't mean I trust you."
"I don't want your trust," he whispered. "I want your loyalty."
The next day, Lana returned to the boardroom—not as decoration, not as Dante's shadow—but as his equal. His partner.
She had memorized every file in the Foundation's charity network, mapped the donors, and highlighted inconsistencies in three separate fund flows.
When the board raised questions about misappropriated funds, she calmly pointed out discrepancies in their own accounts.
When they suggested she remain silent, she showed them the letters of recommendation she'd received from the former CFO of a Fortune 500 company.
"You see," she said sweetly, "I didn't marry into this family to decorate the table. I came to keep it from collapsing."
One of the older members actually clapped.
Dante, from across the table, gave her a single nod.
Later, in the hall, he stopped her with a hand on her wrist.
"That was impressive."
"I don't need your approval."
"No," he said. "But you earned it anyway."
That evening, as the sun bled over the estate and cast the marble halls in gold, Lana sat by the edge of the reflecting pool, legs dipped into the cold water.
Matteo appeared beside her, silent as ever.
"You're either very brave," he said, "or very foolish."
She didn't look at him. "Or very tired."
"Of?"
"Pretending this is just a marriage."
He tilted his head.
"It's not?"
"It's a war," she said quietly. "And I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be fighting."
He tossed a pebble into the water.
"Maybe that's the point."
She looked at him then.
"Tell me the truth, Matteo. If this house burned to the ground, who would you save?"
He smiled, slow and cruel.
"Myself."
That night, as Dante stood in the doorway of her room, she asked him a question.
"If you had to choose between clearing your name or protecting me, which would you pick?"
He didn't hesitate.
"You."
"Why?"
He stepped into the room.
"Because everything else can be rebuilt. But if I lose you—if I lose the only person who actually gives a damn—then I'm already ruined."
She stared at him, chest tight.
"You really believe that?"
"I've never believed anything more."
She walked to him slowly, placed her hand on his chest.
"I'm going to find out who did this to you," she said. "And when I do, I want you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"You'll burn them. No mercy."
His hand closed over hers.
"No mercy."