Her Throne Was Never Given
669 Words
Her Throne Was Never Given
Three years later, Bellenci had changed.
But not as much as Julie De Luca had.
The morning sun filtered through high glass windows, bathing the marble kitchen in gold. Outside, the De Luca estate hummed with early activity—security teams rotating shifts, gardeners pruning the vast wisteria vines that draped the iron gates, and guards in charcoal suits moving with practiced calm.
At the kitchen island, Julie stood barefoot in silk, feeding blueberries to the little girl balanced on her hip.
“Blue or black?” she asked, holding out two berries in her palm.
The toddler, with thick black curls and an impatient scowl that mirrored her father’s, snatched both.
Julie laughed. “Fair enough, principessa.”
Celia De Luca was three today. She had inherited Lorenzo’s eyes—stormy gray, intense even in moments of innocence—and Julie’s stubbornness. A beautiful blend of chaos and royalty.
From the hallway, Lorenzo’s footsteps approached.
Julie didn’t have to turn. She knew the rhythm of his stride like she knew the beat of her heart.
“You’re not in a suit,” she said as he entered.
“I thought I’d try something casual for our daughter’s birthday.” He kissed Julie’s temple, then Celia’s cheek. “You disapprove?”
She tilted her head. “I’m suspicious. You wear suits to bed.”
“I wear nothing to bed, Mrs. De Luca.”
Julie rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement.
He looked tired. Not physically—his frame was still cut from stone, tailored in loose gray slacks and a black shirt rolled at the sleeves—but his eyes held shadows. The kind that never left men like him.
Or like her.
“Did you sleep?” she asked gently.
Lorenzo glanced toward the windows. “Enough.”
Translation: two hours, maybe. Always half-awake, half-guarding.
Even in peace, his mind stayed at war.
---
The party was scheduled for noon—only immediate family and the small circle of trusted allies who had stood with them after the fall of Matteo Lucetti.
Julie moved like a queen across the mansion, arranging decorations, barking orders at the decorators when they misplaced Celia’s favorite color.
“Peach,” she said firmly. “Not pink. My daughter doesn’t do pink.”
The decorators apologized profusely. Lorenzo, trailing behind her with a coffee in one hand and a folder of classified documents in the other, merely smiled.
“You’re scarier than I ever was,” he murmured.
“I had a good teacher.”
He stepped in close, voice low. “What would your life have looked like if I’d never rejected you?”
Julie blinked. “Lonelier.”
A pause.
“Deadlier.”
---
By eleven, Celia was dressed in a custom-made peach dress with tiny crystal butterflies along the skirt. Her curls were wrapped in a silk headband, and she beamed as she ran to the garden where a few guests had gathered: Marco, now head of external affairs for the De Luca empire; Gabriella, the hacker-turned-head of digital security; and even Matteo’s former right-hand man, Domenico, who had switched loyalties after Matteo’s betrayal.
Julie watched from the balcony.
Peace had never felt real to her. Not until now.
Then her phone buzzed.
A message. No sender. No subject. Just five words.
> “The Queen must bleed again.”
Her chest tightened. The air stilled.
She turned slowly, scanning the horizon. The estate was quiet, the guards were stationed, the cameras watching. But someone had gotten through.
She showed the screen to Lorenzo.
He didn’t curse. Didn’t shout. He simply looked at her, gray eyes turning to ash.
“We need to move the perimeter out another mile,” he said quietly. “And cancel the public charity event this week.”
Julie’s hands clenched around the phone. “It’s starting again.”
Lorenzo placed a hand on her lower back.
“No,” he said. “It’s finishing.”
- Writer
