Nico’s POV
Chairman Morgan’s 80th birthday was the kind of gathering where nothing was accidental.
Every glass of whiskey was measured. Every handshake was a negotiation. Every smile in the Grand Hall of the Morgan Estate meant something darker behind it.
Old families. Syndicate heads. Business fronts that hid blood money under polished speeches.
And tonight, I walked in with Natalie on my arm.
Her pregnancy had started to show. Enough that eyes followed her instantly—calculating, whispering, measuring succession lines and leverage.
I didn’t react.
In our world, emotion was just another weakness people used against you.
Still… my grip on her felt wrong.
Not because of her.
Because of absence.
Serena wasn’t here.
My grandfather, Chairman Morgan, entered through the main doors like he still controlled half the continent. Even at eighty, he didn’t walk like a retired man—he walked like a man who still signed death warrants with a pen.
His eyes locked onto me immediately.
“Where is Serena?”
No greeting. No pleasantries.
Just that.
I didn’t hesitate. “She’s preparing your gift. She’ll arrive later.”
He studied me for a second too long.
Then he moved on.
But the question stayed behind like smoke.
---
Two hours passed.
Dinner. Toasts. Syndicate families exchanging smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
I should’ve been listening to the speeches.
I wasn’t.
My gaze kept drifting to the entrance.
Every time the doors opened—
Nothing.
Natalie leaned in slightly. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
But I wasn’t.
Because Serena didn’t miss events like this.
Not for months.
Not for anything.
---
When the doors finally opened again, it wasn’t her.
It was a courier.
Black suit. Neutral badge. Morgan logistics seal.
The room shifted instantly.
A Syndicate courier didn’t enter a gathering like this unless it was sanctioned at the highest level.
“Delivery for Chairman Morgan,” he announced. “From Mrs. Serena Vescari.”
My chest tightened.
That name always did that.
Before I even thought, I stepped forward.
“Give it here.”
The courier didn’t move. “Instructions were direct. Delivery to the Chairman only.”
Of course.
Serena always did things properly.
Even when she was cutting you out of her life.
I stepped back.
“Then do it.”
The courier crossed the hall and placed the first box in front of my grandfather.
Silence fell.
“These are from Mrs. Serena,” he said. “Her birthday wishes.”
My grandfather frowned slightly. “She didn’t come?”
No one answered fast enough.
The courier only repeated himself.
“I was instructed to deliver only.”
That’s when I felt it.
Wrong.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just that instinct you develop when you’ve survived enough Syndicate meetings to know when something has already shifted.
The first box opened.
Inside—hand-stitched embroidery.
Not store-bought. Not commissioned.
Made.
My grandfather’s expression softened slightly.
“She made this,” he said.
I knew.
I had seen her working on it at night. Bleeding fingers. Refusing help. Saying it was “just a gift.”
The second box opened.
A velvet case.
Inside—Morgan heirloom jewelry.
My grandmother’s set.
The same one Serena wore on our wedding day.
My throat tightened without permission.
Why would she send that back?
My grandfather’s face shifted. More serious now.
Then the third box was placed down.
I moved before anyone else could.
“Nico—” my grandfather warned.
Too late.
I took it.
Tore it open.
And stopped.
Everything stopped.
Inside—
Serena’s wedding ring.
Cold metal. Familiar shape. Final.
Under it, a folded note.
My hand didn’t move for a full second.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because something in me refused to accept what it already knew.
