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She’s stepping out of my office. Her hair is slightly messy, strands falling loose around her face. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin.

She freezes when she sees me. Then—tooquickly—she composes herself.

“Aria?”

“The cake is ready,” she says lightly. “I was waiting for you.”

I nod, but something in her tone makes me pause. She looksinnocent enough. But I’m suddenly reminded—she’s a Rossi.

“Good,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s see if they’re as good as you claim.”

But as I watch her walk away, a nagging feeling lingers.

She wasn’t just waiting for me.

21

ARIA

I’m doing this for my freedom.

I repeat the words like a mantra.This is the final step.Once I get this done, Marco will set me free. I’ll finally have control over my life and my choices.

I don’t need to feel bad.

Nicolas himself said this is a hard world.

I’m just doing what I have to do tosurvive.

I cling to those thoughts as I slip out of the kitchen, moving lightly across the cool hardwood floor. The house isquiet. Too quiet.

The only sound is the soft whisper of the evening wind against the windows.

I stop a few times, glancing around, making sure no one is watching. My heart pounds, each beat a warning I try to ignore.

Nicolas could catch me.

Any of his guards could catch me. I could devise an excuse to throw them off—but that doesn’t mean they won’ttellhim I was snooping. I know the risks. I know what I’m gambling with. But somethingdeeperwon’t let me stop.

I’m desperate. Like a moth circling a flame—even though I know the burn is coming.

The first place I check is the locked drawer in our room. It’s tucked inside Nicolas’s wardrobe, hidden behind rows of neatly hung suits and perfectly pressed shirts.

The brass handle gleams under the dim light filtering through the windows. I crouch, running my fingers along the edges, searching—feeling—for anything. A weakness. A latch. A trick I can exploit. But it doesn’t budge.

Damn it.

I curse under my breath, pressing my palm flat against the wood.

Nothing.

A faint creak sounds outside the room. My body tenses. I turn toward the door, my breath locked tight in my throat.

Seconds stretch. Silence returns. But it’s enough to remind me—I’mwalking a thin line.

I rise to my feet, slipping back into the hallway, moving quickly butquietly.His office is next.

The scent of leather and cedar greets me the moment I step inside. I shut the door softly behind me, but my eyes stay glued to it, half-expecting Nicolas toburst inand catch me.