Chapter 2

I returned to Rosa Manor.

In the small studio at the end of the second-floor corridor, my mother's belongings still waited.

Studio was a generous word. It was really just the storage room Ferran hadn't bothered claiming.

After the wedding, the estate my mother had left me was seized by him.

For three years, in either Moretti Manor or my mother's Rosa Manor, I hadn't had so much as a bedroom of my own.

The master suite was Ferran's—the same suite where he brought Nina home, again and again, and ordered me to paint them.

He'd humiliated me in the very places my mother had left to me.

I pushed open the door. By the bed sat a painting whose paint was still drying.

Ferran, half-undressed, with Nina in his arms. She was curled against him, the corners of her eyes still flushed pink.

That session, halfway through, she had melted boneless into his embrace.

"Ferran, my back aches."

He'd bent his head to massage her.

"Sitting too long? Or wore yourself out earlier?"

Nina had glanced at me, blushing.

"Sera's still here."

I'd mixed paint behind the easel, my expression unchanged.

She hadn't been willing to let me go.

"Sera used to be a prodigy, didn't she? All those awards. Your parents must have been so proud."

Ferran's face had twisted with disdain.

"The Sheridans worship money. They sent her to study art so they could sell her off at a higher price when the time came."

"Now that she can't get a cent out of any of it, they must be turning in their graves."

I'd nearly spoken then.

I'd nearly told him that when the Moretti family was on the verge of collapse, it wasn't his poverty that drove me away.

That I had sold my own paintings, leveraged every scrap of Sheridan intelligence, mortgaged my mother's studio—and funneled it all into his family, anonymously.

That the cruel things I said were because I was terrified the Sheridan debts would drag him under.

But Ferran would never believe me.

In his eyes, I was filthy. Greedy. Deserving of every cruelty.

There was one thing, though, that he'd been right about.

I had failed my mother.

After the Sheridan family was ambushed, our enemies hunting us day and night, the Morettis' cash flow also broke.

I sold my paintings in secret. I paid down both families' debts. I hid the true strength of mine, and I sent the money to him with no name attached.

When my mother discovered what I'd done, she was heartsick. She was already ill. The worry deepened, and within a year, she was gone.

So when Ferran later rose to power and asked to marry me, I felt more shame than joy.

My mother had died because of me. What right did I have to be happy?

But I never imagined that he had married me only to punish me.

I dug through the corner and pulled out an old suitcase.

Inside were my mother's well-worn sketchbooks, and an iron tin.

The tin held mementos from when Ferran and I were young.

The first time he secured outside investment, he'd written me a note.

Sera, when I have money, I'll build you the biggest studio in the world.

I'll make sure you only ever paint what you love.

Back then I had believed our love was unbreakable.

That was why, when the Sheridan family collapsed, I'd been willing to leave under a cloud of slander rather than drag him down with me.

But now—I tossed the note into the ashtray.

I watched it shrivel to nothing, then shut the suitcase and went downstairs.

Outside, it had begun to rain.

I had just reached the front door when two of the bodyguards stepped in front of me.

"Donna. The Don gave instructions. Nothing inside Rosa Manor is to leave with you."

"What's in this case belongs to me."

Behind me, Nina's voice rose like silk.

"Sera, if it's only your own things, surely a quick check won't hurt?"

I turned.

She had changed into a loose white dress, with Ferran's coat draped over her shoulders, standing at the top of the stairs.

Ferran stood beside her.

"The studio keys and the deed—I gave those to you myself."

"Anything else in there belongs to me."

His expression was cold, his eyes scrutinizing me without mercy.

"Whether or not it's yours, we'll see when we check."

I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle.

"Ferran. Do you really need to take it this far?"

His gaze hardened. His voice was a quiet command.

"Open it."