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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AURELIA

T he gray-blue light of dawn filters through unfamiliar curtains. For one blissful moment, I exist in limbo—suspended between sleep and wakefulness, free from memory’s cruel grip.

Then reality crashes in. Adrian is alive.

My fingers find the emerald necklace still resting against my collarbone, cold metal warming to my touch. I trace the delicate chain, half-expecting it to dissolve beneath my fingertips like the remnants of a dream. But it remains solid and real—just like him.

Adrian. Alive . Breathing. Transformed into someone calling himself Dante.

Last night over dinner, surrounded by Adrian, Lorenzo, Roby, and several servants whose names I couldn’t keep straight, I’d finally asked the questions burning through me.

How? Why? The fork in my hand had trembled as I’d tried to maintain composure, struggling to eat while my insides twisted with the need to understand .

“The bullet missed anything vital.” Adrian had explained, his voice lower, richer than I remembered. “Just blood loss. Severe, but I got a transfusion just in time before it became fatal.”

I’d gripped my fork tighter, watching him cut his steak—so familiar yet different.

“Lorenzo had men on standby,” he’d continued. “It was planned, in case things went wrong. We’d been working together for months by then.”

“So Valentine knew?” The question had scraped my throat raw. “He knew you were alive this entire time?”

Adrian had paused, those intense blue eyes meeting mine across the table.

“Yes. He’s the one who found a doctor to operate on me there in the penthouse.

He saved my life. Once I was stable and Valentine left me alone, Lorenzo’s men went in and pulled me out in secret. Seems Valentine hasn’t told anyone.”

My stomach lurches now at the implications twisting like snakes in my gut. Valentine is a traitor. He’s been working with Lady Harrow all this time, so why did he secretly save Adrian?

What game is he playing? Why let everyone think Adrian remains dead? At the funeral, was there a mannequin dressed in Adrian’s clothes inside that glass coffin?

None of it makes sense. Even Adrian couldn’t explain Valentine’s motivations fully. “He had his reasons,” was all Adrian said. “Complicated ones, but I don’t know what they are yet.”

I felt unsettled the rest of the night.

It’s now morning, so I sit up in bed and yawn. Lorenzo has given me a beautiful room in his sprawling estate—warm tones, a plush carpet that cushions my feet, a private bathroom with a tub deep enough to drown in.

I could get used to this.

A buzzing sound makes me gasp. My phone.

It still feels surreal to have it back. Last night, Lorenzo had pressed it into my palm with a gentle smile. “I grabbed it when Julian dragged you away at the reception,” he’d explained. “Thought you might want it back.”

I’d immediately texted Eleanora:

I’m safe. Don’t worry. Can’t explain now but I’m okay.

Now, nearly fourteen hours later, she finally responds:

What the FUCK, Aurelia? I heard Julian SOLD you to Lorenzo Mancini. I’m coming to get you. I think I know where he lives.

My heart clenches. Sweet, fierce Eleanora. Always ready to charge into battle for me, even when she doesn’t understand what war we’re fighting.

But why did she take so long to respond? What was she doing? She’s always replied to me ASAP, even while having a booty call with Emeric.

Something’s been changing in her life, but I’m too busy with my own shit to really investigate.

I hit call because the last thing I need is for her to come here .

She answers on the first ring. “Aurelia? Oh my God, are you okay? I swear to God, I’ll kill?—”

“Hey, breathe,” I cut in. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Julian sold you,” she hisses, rage vibrating through every syllable. “Like you were property. Like you were nothing.”

The truth of it stings, but I push past it. “I know. But I’m safe now. It’s complicated, but I’m safe.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am.” I swallow hard, knowing I can’t tell her the truth. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone we spoke. Not yet. Promise me. This is very important.”

She sighs. “Fine. I promise. But I feel so fucking helpless. First you disappear, then Emeric takes on all these new responsibilities and leaves the country. I don’t even know if he’s coming back. I’m just… alone.”

The raw vulnerability in her voice cuts through me. I really wish I could be there for her now. “I’m sorry. I miss you.”

“At least I have Bianca to hang out with sometimes,” she offers, a weak attempt at lightness.

“She’s nice?”

“She’s okay. She talks about her fiancé way too much. I miss you too.” She hesitates. “Promise you’re okay? For real?”

“I’m okay.” And for the first time in weeks, it’s not entirely a lie.

I’m about to end the call when a thought strikes me. Does Eleanora know about her arranged marriage to Lorenzo? The way he explained it, their families had already agreed to terms. Surely she must know and just hasn’t told me.

“Hey? Um, have you ever met Lorenzo?”

“No, only heard of him. Why?”

My stomach drops. God, she’s in for a surprise. “Just curious. He’s not a bad guy.”

“Uh, okay. Well, he better be nice to you or I’ll murder him.”

I smile—she totally would. “I should go,” I say quickly. “I’ll call again when I can.”

After we disconnect, I sink back against the pillows, my mind racing. It sounds like she doesn’t know about the arranged marriage, but why wouldn’t anyone tell her yet? Unless she’s just hiding the truth from me?

Nothing makes sense anymore. Everyone has secrets—Lorenzo, Valentine, Adrian. And possibly, Eleanora.

I force myself out of bed, needing movement to clear my jumbled mind. The bathroom is stocked with everything I could need—soft towels, expensive soaps, even makeup and a hairdryer. I strip and stand under the shower’s hot spray, letting it pound against my skin.

Later, as I dress in a simple blouse and jeans that are exactly my size, nervous energy prickles along my spine. In a few minutes, I’ll go downstairs. I’ll see Adrian again.

Adrian, who I spent weeks mourning. Whose blood dried beneath my fingernails as I screamed for help that night. Whose absence carved a hole in me. Whose memory haunted my captivity as I slowly realized how much I’d misunderstood him.

For weeks I’ve replayed our decade together, examining each moment under a new light. And now he’s here, alive, and so very different. More open. More of the way I always wished he would be.

What if it’s temporary? What if, once we’ve dealt with Julian and Lady Harrow, he reverts back to the man he was? What if his resurrection is just another trap I’m walking into willingly because I’m so desperate to be loved?

Or worse—what if he never really cared for me at all?

What if his kinder treatment was simply because he wasn’t as monstrous as Julian, not because he felt anything deeply?

He still cheated on me repeatedly. His bedroom skills had to come from somewhere, and it certainly wasn’t from our encounters.

We only had sex every few months because he was always “busy” with “work.”

Movement in the garden below catches my eye. I drift toward the window. The glass is cool against my palms as I press closer, drinking in the scene unfolding on the manicured lawn.

Lorenzo chases Roby across the grass, both of them laughing under the soft morning light. Roby’s small legs pump furiously as he clutches a ball to his chest. He’s so adorable and innocent.

And there, standing at the edge of the garden path...

Adrian.

My breath catches. He stands perfectly straight in a crisp charcoal suit, looking every inch the businessman—the Harrow heir—despite everything that’s changed.

Some things will never change, I guess. Like Adrian needing to wear suits twenty-four seven.

The sight tugs an unexpected smile from me.

The death of Adrian Harrow hasn’t killed his fashion sense.

Roby spots him and changes direction, racing toward Adrian with the reckless abandon only children have.

He hurls the ball—a wild, uncoordinated throw that somehow Adrian catches.

Even from here, I can see the momentary surprise on Adrian’s face, as if he’s been handed an alien artifact and has no idea what to do.

For a heartbeat, he simply holds the ball, examining it with the same analytical focus he applied to everything at the Harrow penthouse. Then, with precision, he tosses it back to Roby.

The boy’s delighted shriek carries through the glass. He scoops up the ball and darts away, clearly expecting to be chased. Adrian hesitates, looking at Lorenzo with a slight head tilt.

I laugh. I think this is the first time I’ve seen Adrian not know what to do.

Lorenzo grins and makes a sweeping gesture, as if to say, “Go on.”

Something shifts in Adrian’s posture. His shoulders loosen as he takes one tentative step forward, then another. Suddenly, he’s moving across the lawn with surprising speed, playfully lunging for Roby who squeals and spins away.

My breath catches.

What a beautiful moment.

It’s like I’m seeing something from another life—one where Adrian Harrow plays with children in sunlit gardens instead of moving the chess pieces of a criminal empire.

He’s still so awkward, his stiffness revealing how play was discouraged when he was a child, but there’s an unmistakable tenderness in how he finally catches Roby, lifting him high while the boy giggles.

My chest tightens with an emotion I can’t name.

This man—so different from the cold, detached person who shared my bed for a decade—would make a good father.

Nothing like Lucian with his cruelty. I can see it in the careful way Adrian holds Roby, like the boy is important and might break if handled too roughly.

Adrian would be a good father to my children.

Heat floods my face. What the hell am I thinking? I turn sharply from the window, pressing my back against the wall as if I can escape my own thoughts.