marked by you

Homecoming

PARIS – TWO NIGHTS BEFORE THE FLIGHT

It took three knocks and a minute of muffled arguing before Lucas finally opened the penthouse door.

“He says he’s family,” Lucas muttered to Elena. “I say he’s a cockroach in designer shoes.”

From the hall came Mateo’s smooth reply, “Open the door, Lucas, before I make sure you’re not welcome in Valencourt again.”

Elena didn’t look up from her wine. “Let him in before his ego freezes to death out there.”

Mateo stepped inside, surveying her penthouse like he was appraising a property he intended to gut. No greetings. No small talk.

“See, Father thinks you’re in Paris working on pretty little dresses,” he said, strolling to the window. “But I know you’ve been making deals with the Maulport business forum. Dangerous crowd. And I know exactly who’s been funding those secret expansions of yours.”

Elena arched a brow but stayed silent.

He turned to face her, smile thin and cold. “If Father finds out you’ve been taking money from the same people who once tried to destroy Vargas Enterprises… he won’t just cut you off. He’ll bury you in the same hole he buried your mother.”

The air between them sharpened. Lucas straightened, his hand subtly moving toward the gun at his back.

But Elena just set down her glass, leaned forward slightly, and spoke with measured calm.

“Mateo,” she said, “do you see Finch here?”

Mateo’s gaze flicked to the tall, sleek Doberman now sitting alert by her chair. The dog’s amber eyes were fixed on him, muscles taut.

“A gift from Alcaro of Maulport,” she continued, her tone soft but edged in steel. “He only understands French. Just one word — mords — and you’ll regret stepping your foot in here.”

Finch’s lips curled back, revealing the faintest flash of teeth.

Mateo’s smirk wavered.

“Not a threat,” Elena added with a slow smile. “A guarantee.”

PARIS – TWO NIGHTS BEFORE THE FLIGHT (CONTINUED)

The crystal glass in Elena’s hand slipped. It didn’t shatter — it exploded. The stem snapped, and shards glittered across the marble floor like blood in moonlight.

Lucas swore and stepped forward, but Finch moved first, pressing close to her knee with a low, uneasy whimper.

Elena’s eyes stayed locked on the space Mateo had just vacated. “How did he find out?” Her voice was soft — the kind of softness that carried more danger than a scream.

Lucas crouched, sweeping the shards into a neat pile with his handkerchief. “Probably the same way everyone finds out things they shouldn’t — someone got paid.”

Elena rose from her seat, moving to the vast windows that overlooked Paris. The city glittered back at her, oblivious to the sudden shift in her mood. Her reflection stared back — flawless, composed, but her grip on the curtain edge was white-knuckled.

Finch followed, his claws clicking against the marble, tail stiff. She reached down absently, her fingers threading through the short, sleek fur along his back.

“Mateo doesn’t know half of what I’m doing,” she murmured. “Which means someone’s been talking to him. Someone close enough to know about Maulport… and Alcaro.”

Lucas straightened, leaning against the arm of her chair. “You think it’s coming from Valencourt?”

Elena turned, her expression suddenly sharp. “Where else? The vultures in that city have been waiting for me to make one wrong move. Mateo’s just stupid enough to think he can be the one to push me off the ledge.”

She crossed the room to the bar, poured herself another drink, and swallowed it in one smooth motion. “If Rafael wants me home, fine. But I’m not going back to play dutiful daughter. I’m going back to smoke out whoever’s been feeding Mateo my business.”

Lucas’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “So you’re going to dinner after all?”

“Oh, I’m going,” she said, setting the glass down with deliberate care. “And Mateo is going to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.”

Finch, still at her side, gave a short, low growl — as if in agreement.

The wine in Mateo’s hand was untouched, his jaw still tight from the encounter in Paris. He held the phone to his ear, pacing the length of the salon.

“She didn’t even flinch, Maman,” he said finally, his voice low but clipped. “Like she was born to face down knives. Fierce — more than I expected.”

On the other end, Isabella’s voice was silk wrapped around glass. “You went there to rattle her, not test your courage. Did you at least make her think twice about coming home?”

Mateo stared out the tall arched window at Valencourt’s glowing skyline. “She’ll come. But it won’t be because she’s afraid of me. She’s too—” He stopped, almost grudgingly. “—too much like her mother. Maybe worse.”

There was a pause. Then Isabella’s voice softened into something colder. “Then we will remind her who she’s dealing with.”

The door to the salon swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in — silver threading his black hair, sharp blue eyes glinting with the weight of experience. Leonardo Vescari, Isabella’s elder brother, and the kind of man whose presence always made the air feel heavier.

Leonardo dropped into a chair opposite Mateo. “I hear you paid a visit to Paris,” he said, his tone measured. “And you came back empty-handed.”

Mateo scowled. “I didn’t come back empty-handed. I came back with a warning — she’s tougher than her mother. More dangerous. You think Isabella’s right about her, Uncle? That she could ruin everything?”

Leonardo’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “She could. Which is why you should be more concerned with the people she’s tied to in Maulport. Those detectives have already been sniffing around. They’ve been asking for the payment you promised them for that information. They won’t wait forever.”

Mateo sat back, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. “Let them wait.”

Leonardo’s smile was humorless. “You don’t make men like that wait, Mateo. You pay them, or you find yourself on their list.”

Isabella’s voice cut in from the phone speaker — sharp, decisive. “We settle the detectives first. Then we deal with Elena.”

Mateo ended the call without another word, already calculating how much damage that Paris trip might have cost him.

VALENCOURT – THE VESCARI ESTATE, NIGHT BEFORE THE DINNER

The envelope landed on the polished mahogany table with a muted thud. Mateo slid it toward Leonardo without ceremony.

“That’s everything the Maulport detectives wanted,” Mateo said, his tone clipped. “Make sure they get it. And while you’re at it… I want you to keep Elena from walking into Valencourt tomorrow.”

Leonardo didn’t reach for the envelope immediately. He studied Mateo with those glacier-blue eyes, as though weighing just how foolish the younger man really was. “And how do you propose I do that? Tie her to a chair in Paris?”

“Distract her,” Mateo insisted. “Make her think there’s something urgent to handle before she gets here. Whatever it takes.”

Leonardo finally took the envelope, tucking it into his coat pocket. “You think too small, nephew. Delaying her isn’t the problem. She’s coming here for a reason, and no matter what, she’ll find her way to this table. Better to be ready for her than to waste time playing tricks.”

Mateo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

---

VALENCOURT – THE DAY OF THE DINNER

The Vargas estate glittered under the late-afternoon sun, its sprawling white façade as imposing as the family inside. Staff darted about in a flurry of preparation — polishing silverware, uncorking wine, adjusting the crystal chandeliers until every facet caught the light.

In the main dining hall, the long table stretched almost the length of the room, already set with fine china and fresh lilies. At the head sat Doña Marcelline Vargas, the family matriarch — a woman whose presence could silence a room without a word. She surveyed the arrangements like a general before battle.

Lovette Vargas — Rafael’s niece — stood awkwardly near the far end of the table, a porcelain smile fixed in place. She’d been summoned to take Elena’s seat at the dinner, her instructions vague and her unease clear.

Mateo swept into the room, adjusting his cufflinks, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Don’t look so nervous, cousin. You’re just here to nod and smile. The less you say, the better.”

Lovette gave a short, uncertain laugh. “And if they ask about Elena?”

“Say she’s busy,” Mateo replied. “Or better yet, say nothing at all. The less they know, the less she can use against us.”

He turned just as the sound of heels clicking against the marble echoed through the hall.

Every head turned.

And there she was.

Elena Vargas — perfectly poised, every step deliberate, wearing a dress that seemed cut to make the air itself hold its breath. Finch padded beside her, his collar gleaming under the chandelier light.

Mateo’s smirk vanished.

Lovette’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Doña Marcelline’s stern expression softened into something rare — approval. “Ma chère petite-fille,” she said warmly. “You’re home.”

Elena smiled like she’d just won a war. “Of course I am, Grandmother. Wouldn’t miss dinner for the world.”