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I feel an unexpected wave of sadness that I quickly shove down.

The front door clicks open, and I don’t even turn around. Only one other person has the key code.

“You look like hell,” Chiara says by way of greeting, dropping her purse on the kitchen island with a thud.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” I pour coffee into two mugs, noting the dark circles under my sister’s eyes. She’s been having nightmares again. Learning the truth about our parents’ murder has reopened old wounds.

She accepts the mug and studies me like she knows I’ve been up to something. Chiara has always been better at reading people.

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” she asks. “You usually do.”

“I got tired after the gala.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily, but Chiara’s expression doesn’t change.

“Right.” Her voice is flat, disbelieving.

“I had a lot of hands to shake last night, conversation to make.”

“Busy building connections, huh? You’re really ready to go to war with Marco? With your husband?” She sets down her coffee and crosses her arms.

“The marriage died the night I learned he lied to me,” I hiss.

“Maybe. But he loves you, Aria.”

“Too bad,” I say, anger brimming in my veins. All our lives, we’ve been lied to. Deprived. His family was behind it.

A beat of silence stretches between us.

“Does he know you’re pregnant?”

“Yes. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It does,” she says, her voice low, urgent. “Whether you admit it or not, it changes everything.”

I look away, jaw tight.

“Wars have consequences, Aria.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?” She steps closer, and I see fear flickering in her eyes. “Because you look like a woman who’s been thoroughly fucked, not like a general preparing for battle.”

And then, her eyes flicker over to the bite marks on my neck.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly tug up my top. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve never lied to each other, not once in twenty-five years. Don’t start now.”

The truth sits on my tongue like poison, begging to be spit out. But admitting what happened last night feels like admitting weakness, and I can’t afford weakness.

Not now.

“He was here,” I say finally. “Marco. He found me.”

Chiara’s face goes white. “Jesus Christ, Aria. Are you hurt?”

“He didn’t hurt me.” The words come out rougher than intended. “We talked. About the baby. About… everything.”

“And?”