Aryana Mason POV:
In the wake of the auction, I became a ghost in my own home.
I spent my days locked in the studio, painting violent slashes of red and black across the canvas.
The staff whispered that I had snapped. They murmured that the shame had finally broke me.
Good. Let them think I was broken.
Broken things are ignored. And ignored things are dangerous.
While they gossiped, I worked.
I wasn't just painting.
I was installing.
I tucked micro-cameras into the intricate molding of the ceiling. I slid audio bugs behind the heavy canvases.
I put them in the hallway. In the living room.
I refused to be blind anymore.
I spent my nights watching the feeds on a secure tablet Sarah had gave me.
I watched Kacie parade through my house like she owned it.
I watched the Capos laugh about "Crazy Aryana."
I was gathering ammunition.
One evening, the door to my studio burst open.
Cameron stood there.
He looked tired. His tie was loosened, hanging slightly askew.
He walked in without asking, stepping carelessly over my paints.
He looked at the canvas I was working on-a dark, chaotic storm of oil and rage.
"You are embarrassing the family," he said.
"I am painting," I said, not looking up.
He grabbed my wrist, forcing me to drop the brush.
"Look at me."
I looked. His eyes were dark, searching.
He sat down on the stool next to me. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"My father beat me," he said suddenly. "He locked me in the cellar when I cried."
I stared at him. He was playing the trauma card.
"He told me love makes you weak," Cameron continued. "I built this empire alone. I have enemies everywhere."
He looked at me with soft, pleading eyes.
"I can give you everything, Aryana. The money. The status. The house."
"But?" I asked.
"But you have to accept Kacie," he said. "She is... useful. She handles things you can't. She is a tool."
"A tool you sleep with?" I asked.
"It is just stress relief," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "It means nothing. You are my wife. You are the queen. She is just... the help."
"She calls herself your sister," I said. "She tells people she is your partner."
"She is delusional," Cameron said. "But she is loyal. I need her loyalty right now. Just... tolerate her. Like you tolerate my business."
"You want me to tolerate your mistress like I tolerate your murders?"
"Yes," he said. "Because that is what a good mafia wife does."
I looked at him.
He really believed this. He believed he could have his cake and eat it too.
"You say she is a tool," I said. "But you gave her the emeralds. You let her break my leg."
"I saved your reputation!" he snapped. "I covered for your outburst!"
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was the feed.
Kacie was calling him.
Cameron's phone rang a second later.
He looked at the screen. His face softened instantly.
"I have to take this," he said.
"Go," I said.
"Aryana, please. Think about what I said. We can make this work."
He stood up and answered the phone.
"Hey, sweetie," he said, his voice dropping an octave into a gentle purr. "I'm coming. Don't cry."
He walked out of the studio without looking back.
He left his wife to comfort his "tool."
I looked at the table.
There was a bracelet there. A diamond tennis bracelet he had tossed on the counter when he walked in.
'A peace offering,' he had mumbled.
It was nice. But it was mass-produced. I had seen the same one in a catalogue.
The emeralds he gave Kacie were one of a kind.
I picked up the bracelet.
I walked to the trash can filled with paint-soaked rags.
I dropped it in.
I didn't want his scraps.
I didn't want his peace.
I checked the calendar on the wall.
Three days.
Three days until Cameron's thirtieth birthday party.
The biggest event of the year. Every boss, every politician, every rival would be there.
He wanted a queen?
I would give him a queen.
I would give him a show he would never forget.
I picked up my brush and dipped it in the blood-red paint.
It was time to finish the masterpiece.
