Ava Valente was elegance herself today as always.
That morning, the Valente estate glowed with the sheen of old money and quiet menace. Marble floors reflected chandeliers that dripped crystal light; portraits of dead ancestors stared down with eyes too knowing. Every corner smelled faintly of cigars, roses, and iron discipline.
And through that grand foyer walked Ava — head high, heels sharp, crimson dress catching the dawn light. The silk hugged her form, a weapon in itself. Her expression was poised, serene, but her eyes — a molten amber inherited from her mother — missed nothing.
Every glance. Every whisper. Every betrayal.
The men in her father’s service called her la fiamma silenziosa — the silent flame. They thought she didn’t notice the way their gazes lingered when she passed
