The De Luca house had always been too quiet for my liking.
Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just controlled. Every sound softened by thick walls and heavier expectations. When Marco brought me home three days after the accident, the gates opened without pause, the guards nodded without curiosity, and the servants pretended not to notice how slowly I walked or how my hands trembled when I climbed the stairs.
Grief was allowed here. Questions were not.
My bedroom looked exactly the same. Pale curtains drawn back, the bed made with military precision, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air. The nursery door across the hall was closed.
I did not open it.
Marco hovered for the first hour, offering water, medication, words he thought sounded comforting. I let him. I nodded when expected. I even leaned into his touch once, just enough to reassure him that the woman he believed he owned still existed.
When he finally left for a meeting, escorted by men with guns and unquestioning loyalty, I exhaled for the first time since entering the house.
I wasn’t alone for long.
Bianca came that evening.
She didn’t knock. She never did. She slipped into my room like she belonged there, carrying a small bouquet of white flowers and wearing an expression so carefully rehearsed it almost impressed me.
“Elena,” she said softly. “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”
I sat at the vanity, brushing my hair slowly, methodically. In the mirror, I watched her approach, watched the way her eyes darted to my reflection rather than meeting my gaze directly.
“I’m fine,” I replied.
She flinched, as if my calm unsettled her. “I brought these,” she said, holding out the flowers. “For the baby.”
The word landed like a slap.
“For yourself,” I corrected quietly.
She set the flowers down quickly, her fingers tightening around the stems. “I know you hate me,” she whispered. “I would too. I just… I need you to understand that night was a mistake.”
“Mistakes require ignorance,” I said. “You knew you were drunk.”
Her eyes flickered. Just for a second.
“I wasn’t that drunk,” she said too quickly. “I’ve driven worse before.”
There it was.
I turned slowly on the stool and looked at her.
“Before?” I asked.
Bianca froze.
The silence stretched between us, thick and revealing. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her mind scrambling to correct the misstep.
“I mean—” she laughed nervously. “You know what I mean. I didn’t think it was dangerous.”
I stood, ignoring the ache in my body, and walked past her to the window. The estate grounds stretched endlessly beyond the glass, manicured lawns hiding cameras and men who would report any irregularity back to Marco.
“You don’t need my forgiveness,” I said. “You already have Marco’s.”
That hit its mark.
Her jaw tightened. “You don’t understand him like I do.”
I turned back, studying her carefully. Bianca was beautiful in a way that demanded attention—sharp cheekbones, expressive eyes, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. She had always known how to position herself just close enough to Marco to be indispensable.
“I understand him very well,” I said. “That’s why I know you’re afraid.”
Her smile faltered. “Afraid of what?”
“Of being temporary,” I replied.
Her breath hitched. Then she scoffed. “You’re projecting.”
“Am I?” I asked. “Because from where I stand, you’re the one visiting a grieving wife in secret, rehearsing apologies you don’t mean.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think I don’t feel guilty?”
“I think guilt would have stopped you from driving,” I said.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Be careful, Elena. You’re still here because Marco allows it.”
I smiled faintly. “And you’re still here because he hasn’t discarded you yet.”
For a moment, the mask slipped completely. Hatred flared in her eyes, raw and ugly.
“You lost,” she hissed. “The baby is gone. The heir is gone. You don’t matter the way you used to.”
The words burned—but they also confirmed what I needed to know.
Bianca believed the child’s death had secured her position.
That made her careless.
“Leave,” I said.
She stared at me, breathing hard, then straightened her shoulders. “I tried to be kind.”
She walked out, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
I locked the door behind her.
My hands shook as I pulled my phone from the drawer and opened my notes again, adding to the list.
Admitted prior drunk driving. Confident. Hostile. Believes heir’s death benefits her.
It wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Later that night, Marco came to bed smelling faintly of whiskey and cigarette smoke. He slipped beneath the covers beside me, his body warm, familiar, intrusive.
“Bianca stopped by,” he said casually.
“Yes,” I replied.
“She feels terrible,” he continued. “She wants to make amends.”
I didn’t respond.
He turned onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. “You don’t have to like her. But for now, it’s better if things stay… civil.”
“For the family,” I said.
“For the family,” he agreed.
His fingers brushed my arm. “You’ve been very calm.”
I kept my eyes on the ceiling. “What choice do I have?”
He smiled, satisfied. “That’s my Elena.”
If he had looked closer, he might have seen the calculation behind my stillness.
The next morning, I requested access to the study.
Marco raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I want to review estate matters,” I said evenly. “If I’m expected to remain at your side, I should know what I’m representing.”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Of course.”
That was mistake number one.
The study smelled of leather and old paper. Marco’s world lived here—documents, ledgers, locked drawers. I moved slowly, carefully, pretending to read while memorizing details. Times. Names. Patterns.
And then I found it.
A phone.
Not Marco’s primary one—the one everyone knew. A second device, tucked into the back of a drawer, face down and silent.
My pulse thundered.
I glanced at the door, listening. No footsteps. No voices.
I picked it up.
The screen lit at my touch. No passcode.
Bianca’s name filled the message thread.
My hands steadied as I scrolled.
You promised.
She’s weak now.
Once your grandfather signs, she’s gone.
I don’t want her child. I want ours.
I swallowed hard.
This was it. Not enough to burn him—but enough to wound.
I took photos quickly, my fingers precise despite the adrenaline surging through me. Then I replaced the phone exactly where I found it and closed the drawer.
When Marco returned later that afternoon, I was sitting by the window, knitting—an image of quiet recovery.
He smiled. “Feeling better?”
“Every day,” I said softly.
And it was true.
Because for the first time since the accident, I wasn’t just surviving.
I was preparing.
