Don Vittorio Rowan regarded her in silence after she assured him she would deal with Alexander on her own. His sharp eyes searched her face as though weighing whether she understood the consequences of what she was about to do. Finally, the rigid line of his mouth softened.
“So be it,” he said at last, resting his clasped hands over the polished mahogany desk. “If Don Alexander does not object, the Commission will not interfere with your departure.”
Lillian dipped her chin respectfully. “Thank you, Don Vittorio. I’ll speak with him personally. He’ll agree.”
She collected the contract sealed with crimson wax and left the council office with steady, unhurried steps.
The second the heavy double doors closed behind her, that calm exterior fractured.
Projecting certainty in front of the old Don had been manageable. Persuading Alexander would be something else entirely. Their wedding—an event the entire underworld anticipated—was less than a month away. Invitations had already circulated among allied families. Security arrangements were in motion. Caterers, musicians, political guests—everything was being prepared for what would be the most powerful union in the city that year.
There had once been a time when she counted down the days with quiet excitement.
Now she tracked them like someone marking time before execution.
Only days earlier, she had tried to discuss the wedding arrangements with Alexander. He dismissed it with a flick of his hand.
“The family is dealing with territorial pressure and federal heat,” he said coolly. “We don’t need theatrics. We’ll sign the marriage documents privately before the Commission. No spectacle. No unnecessary attention.”
She had forced herself to nod, convincing herself that responsibility weighed heavily on him.
Until later that night.
She had stepped onto the balcony outside their shared suite, intending to clear her thoughts, when his voice drifted up from the garden below.
“Don’t worry, Scarlett,” he murmured, his tone low and almost indulgent. “There won’t be a public wedding. If I decide against it, no one will challenge me.”
The softness in his voice cut deeper than any insult ever could.
In that moment, understanding settled in with brutal clarity.
It wasn’t law enforcement pressure or rival families that made him avoid a public ceremony.
It was Scarlett.
The realization did not ignite anger.
It hollowed her out.
What they had—if it could even be called an engagement—felt less like a promise and more like an arrangement of convenience.
Leaving the De Luca estate no longer felt like running away.
It felt like reclaiming herself.
But would he allow her to go?
Lost in thought as she crossed the marble courtyard, she failed to notice someone stepping directly into her path.
She collided hard against a solid chest.
A startled gasp escaped her as her heel twisted sharply against the stone. Pain shot through her ankle, and she would have fallen if a strong arm hadn’t caught her around the waist.
“What’s wrong with you?” Alexander’s voice was firm, edged with irritation. “I called your name three times. You didn’t even look at me.”
Even after years at his side, being held so close made her pulse react traitorously. Warmth crept into her face as she lifted her eyes to his. There was no suspicion in his expression. No indication that she had just secured permission to walk away from him.
“I was thinking about work,” she replied lightly. “There’s been a lot to handle with the accounts.”
His gaze lingered, measuring her words, but he didn’t press.
Instead, he lowered himself in front of her and gently lifted the fabric of her trousers to inspect her ankle. His fingers pressed along the swollen joint with surprising care.
She inhaled sharply at the sting.
Without hesitation, he slipped one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
“This isn’t nothing,” he muttered. “You’ve strained it. You shouldn’t be walking.”
Several guards stationed along the courtyard perimeter glanced discreetly in their direction. Lillian stiffened immediately.
“Put me down,” she whispered. “Everyone’s staring.”
He ignored her entirely. When she shifted as though to free herself, he gave her a light warning tap against her thigh. “Stop moving. You’re hurt.”
Despite everything—despite the anger, the humiliation—her body still responded instinctively to his proximity. She despised that weakness.
He had barely taken a few steps toward the main house when his phone vibrated inside his jacket.
He paused, adjusting his hold on her as he answered.
A soft, almost syrupy voice carried faintly through the speaker.
“Alexander? Are you home? I’m not feeling well. I think I might have a fever. Could you come check on me?”
Scarlett.
Lillian didn’t need to see the caller ID to know.
She watched the subtle shift in his expression—the tension easing from his features, his eyes warming.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Lillian dropped her gaze and began counting silently.
One.
Two.
Three.
He stopped walking before she reached ten.
Slowly—almost carefully—he set her back on her feet.
“There’s something urgent,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Someone inside needs me.”
Of course they did.
She inclined her head slightly. “I understand.”
For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, his hand still lightly supporting her elbow.
Then he withdrew it.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the mansion, already lowering his voice as he continued speaking into the phone.
Lillian remained where he left her, the pain in her ankle pulsing steadily beneath her skin.
But the ache in her chest was quieter now.
Clearer.
The choice she had made in Don Vittorio’s office no longer wavered.
If she walked away from this empire, nothing here would truly try to stop her.
