The storm had been building for days.
It began in whispers—shadows of doubt planted in Adriana’s heart, splinters of lies lodged in Damian’s mind. But now, as night draped the Moretti estate in heavy silence, the storm broke open with the sharpness of glass shattering on marble floors.
Adriana stood in Damian’s office, her chest heaving, her golden hair damp from the rain outside. Her eyes, usually pools of warmth, burned like molten amber. She looked every bit the lion her father had raised—cornered, wounded, but unwilling to bow.
On the desk between them lay the silver flask, open, the forged note beside it like a venomous snake. Damian had been waiting, jaw clenched, his gaze cold and unreadable.
“You left this in my room,” Adriana’s voice cut the silence, trembling but sharp. “Care
