Page 4 of Queen

“You’re not the good man he was,” I had spat, venom on my tongue.

He’d only laughed. “Exactly.”

And then he kissed me like a man who intended to break the world in half just to make me crawl back to him.

My grip tightens until the letter crumples in my hand, knuckles white, pulse hammering in my throat. Every line reeks of him—arrogance, seduction, violence wrapped in silk.

Marry me, Zina. Not for love. For legacy.

“Fuck you,” I hiss to the empty room.

I lurch to my feet and cross the room, tearing the paper straight down the middle. Then again. And again. The shreds scatter across the rug like ashes, like broken teeth. My breathing comes ragged, shallow. My hands don’t stop shaking.

It isn’t just a letter. It’s a leash. A noose slipped around my throat before I even realized I was standing in the gallows.

I stare at the scraps.

And then—like the fool he knows I am—I drop to my knees. One by one, I start pulling the pieces together. One strip of tape. Then another. My fingers tremble with every press.

Because I need it. Because I need him. Because the wolves are already clawing at these walls, and the devil, at least, keeps his promises.

When the last strip seals the page back into a fractured whole, I sit frozen, staring down at it. My crown might be made of silk and ash, but the truth is worse: Emiliano still owns a piece of me. And I fucking hate him for it.

Shadows Whisper

The phone feels heavier than the gun in Giovanni’s safe. I stare at it for a long time before dialing. Not him. Not yet.

The line clicks. “Ms. Rivas,” the lawyer says, clipped and professional, as if I’m nothing more than another client.

“It’s Mrs. Rivas.” My tone cuts like glass. “Giovanni never divorced me.”

A pause. “Of course. And per the will, the estate—both the mansion and controlling interest in Rivas Holdings—were left entirely in your name. No dispute there.”

“Then why the fuck am I getting notices that his sons are challenging it?”

Another pause, heavier this time. “They’ve filed an emergency injunction. They’re claiming undue influence. That you coerced Giovanni while he was medicated.”

My stomach lurches, breath leaving me sharp and fast. “That’s bullshit and they know it.”

“I agree. But it will take time to resolve. Court hearings. Discovery. It won’t be pretty.”

Pretty. The word grates like rust on bone. Nothing in this empire was ever pretty. Blood and glass—that’s the Rivas inheritance.

I end the call without another word, the silence flooding in. My grip on the phone is tight enough to snap it in half. I walk to Giovanni’s safe and punch in the code—1224. Christmas Eve. The night he bound me to him with vows in Latin and lies in Italian.

The door opens with a slow, traitorous groan.

Files. Bank keys. Passports.

And at the back, a silver frame facedown. My pulse spikes as I pull it free.

It’s older than I remembered. The colors are faded, but the faces are burned into me.

Me. Giovanni. Emiliano.

All three of us smiling. Glasses raised. Arms slung like lovers in some cruel pantomime of family. Back then, only one of them had touched me. The wrong one. The right one. Both truths scrape at my ribs.

The edges of the photo are worn. Someone looked at this often.