The morning light was cruel.
Adriana sat before her mirror, her hair being braided by a servant whose hands trembled as though she, too, sensed the storm brewing. Her lips still tingled from Damian’s kiss, her body aching with the memory of it. Every stolen heartbeat replayed in her mind, and yet each recollection only deepened her dread.
Because the kiss had not just been passion—it had been war.
The door creaked open. Isabella swept in, draped in pale silk, her beauty soft, her eyes sharp. She dismissed the servant with a flick of her hand.
“You didn’t sleep,” Isabella murmured, circling her like a predator.
Adriana stiffened. “Neither did you, it seems.”
Their gazes met in the mirror, reflections locked in silent combat. Isabella’s lips curved. “Strange things happen in this villa
