The dungeon reeked of damp stone and rusted iron. Every drip of water that fell from the ceiling sounded like the tick of a clock counting down Adriana’s fate.
Her wrists ached where the shackles bit into her skin. Her silk gown was torn from the struggle, streaked with blood where the dagger had kissed her throat the night before. Yet she sat upright, her chin lifted.
They want to see me broken, she thought. But I am still a Rossi. I will not kneel.
Then came the sound—soft, deliberate footsteps echoing against the stone. Too light to be a guard. Too confident to be her father.
And when the door creaked open, you could almost feel the air shift.
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Isabella glided inside, carrying a lantern that threw long shadows across the walls. She wore no crown, no jewels—just a simple dress t
