Alessia POV
The heavy oak doors of the university didn't just close behind me; they felt like the gates of a sanctuary slamming shut.
I hit the pavement running. The London air was no longer just cold; it was a physical weight, damp and smelling of wet slate and exhaust. I didn't have the luxury of my own car—I hadn't even thought to grab my keys when I bolted. I stood at the curb, my hand trembling as I waved down a black cab, my breath coming in short, jagged plumes of white vapor.
The taxi pulled over with a screech of wet tires. I scrambled inside, the interior smelling of stale tobacco and damp upholstery.
"Kensington. The Vane Estate," I rasped. "Please. Fast."
The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror—a brief, pitying glance at the girl with the wild eyes and the oversized sweater that looked like it was swallowing her whole. He didn't say a word; he just shifted into gear.
I leaned my head against the window, the vibration of the engine rattling my skull. Outside, the city was a blur of gray and neon. People were walking, umbrella-less, living lives that didn't have a four o'clock countdown to a "correction."
Veritas.
The name echoed in my head, louder than the sound of the rain starting to lash against the taxi's roof. Julian– that evil boy. He had used the name. He had looked at me and seen the one thing I had worked so hard to bury. He hadn't just looked at my face; he had looked at my mind.
I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing the cold metal of my laptop. It was my heart, my brain, my escape—and now, it was a liability. If Julian knew, how long until my mother found out? How long until she realized I was building a life in the shadows that she couldn't touch? I can't trust Julian. I don't know what is going on in his head or what exactly he wants from me.
I checked my watch again. 3:52 PM.
"Can't you go any faster?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
"Traffic's a mess, love. Peak hour," the driver muttered, completely unaware that he was presiding over my execution.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, but all I could feel was the frantic thrum of the taxi's engine beneath my feet. My mind wasn't on the dinner or the guests; it was on the image of my mother's face if I walked through that door a minute past four. To her, lateness wasn't just a mistake—it was a declaration of war.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking so violently I had to sit on them.
The cab finally turned onto the long, private drive of the estate. The gravel crunched under the tires—a sound that usually meant "home," but today it sounded like bone breaking.
I shoved a handful of crumpled notes at the driver, not waiting for change. I was out of the door before the cab had even fully stopped.
The estate loomed ahead, a monstrous pile of white stone and dark windows that seemed to watch me with cold, judgmental eyes. I didn't go for the front steps. I couldn't risk the foyer, not when the Valentinos' car might already be idling there. I sprinted toward the side entrance—the one meant for the caterers and the help.
The air was thick and unnervingly still, a heavy, gray pressure that seemed to sap the oxygen from my lungs. There was no wind, no birds, just the distant, low rumble of thunder that promised a storm I wouldn't be able to outrun. My charcoal wool felt like a lead weight against my skin, itchy and suffocating as I fumbled with the keypad.
Beep.
The lock clicked, a sound as sharp as a gunshot in the dead quiet of the gardens. I slipped inside, the sterile warmth of the mudroom hitting me like a physical blow. The air in here didn't smell like the expensive lilies of the drawing room; it smelled of floor wax and the quiet, frantic industry of the help.
"Miss Alessia?"
I looked up. Martha was standing there, her face a mask of frantic efficiency. She had been with the Vane family since before I was born—originally my mother's maid, then reassigned to me when it became clear I was "difficult" to manage. She was a woman of few words and even fewer smiles, but in a house made of marble and ice, she was the only patch of solid ground I had. She held a stopwatch in her hand, her eyes darting to the grandfather clock in the hall, Martha didn't just keep my schedule; she guarded my life. She was the one who hid my research journals under the floorboards and the one who knew exactly which brand of concealer could hide a finger-shaped bruise on a pale neck.She was the only mother figure I had ever known. While the woman in the dining room provided the blood in my veins, Martha provided the air in my lungs. She was the one who whispered stories to me when I was sick, the one who stayed silent when I needed to hide, and the only person in this world who looked at me without a list of corrections in her hand.
It's 3:58," she whispered, her voice trembling with a fear that mirrored my own. "They're in the drawing room. Your mother... she's already asked for you twice."
"Help me," I choked out, already pulling at the heavy wool of my turtleneck. "Please, Martha. Help me disappear."
My room was a flurry of motion, but it felt more like a preparation for burial than a dinner. The charcoal sweater—my fortress lay discarded on the floor like a dead skin.
"The long sleeves, Martha," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Make sure they're long."
Mother had chosen a gown of heavy, midnight-blue silk. It was beautiful, expensive, and a complete lie. The high Victorian neckline was stiff with lace, designed to hide the faint, yellowish bruises on my collarbone from last week's "lesson" in posture. The sleeves were tapered to the wrist, thick enough to mask the scars that tracked across my arms the physical map of a childhood spent trying to be perfect and failing.
Martha pulled the corset tight, and I felt the air leave my lungs. I looked in the full-length mirror, and the familiar wave of nausea hit.
The dress was meant for a woman with the curves of a Vane—someone like Seraphina or Mother. On me, the fabric bunched and shifted, the heavy silk drowning my narrow frame. I looked like a child playing dress-up in a queen's wardrobe. My collarbones felt like knives under the lace, and the hollow of my throat was deep enough to hold a shadow.
"I look like a skeleton," I breathed, my fingers grazing the silk where it hung loose over my ribs.
"You look beautiful Allesia, so perfect," Martha forced a smile, her voice thick with a sadness she couldn't hide. She began to pin the extra fabric at my waist, trying to create the illusion of a shape that simply wasn't there. She knew as well as I did: Mother didn't want me to be beautiful. She wanted me to be presentable. She wanted the world to see the silk, not the girl struggling to fill it.
Martha reached for the heavy, clinical foundation, dabbing it onto my neck with practiced speed. "Eyes down, heart quiet, Alessia. Just get through the first course."
I took a shaky breath, feeling the lace scratch against my jaw. The dress was a cage, a sapphire-colored weight that reminded me with every movement that I was "unfinished."
I checked the clock. 3:59 PM.
I walked out of the room, my heels clicking a precise, rhythmic death-march toward the dining room. Every step felt like an intrusion. I reached the double doors, smoothed the silk over my hips, and forced my face into the mask of the dutiful, silent daughter.
I stepped inside just as the grandfather clock in the hall began to chime.
The double doors groaned as they swung open, a sound that usually signaled an arrival, but to me, it sounded like a trap snapping shut. I kept my chin at the precise angle Mother demanded high enough to show grace, low enough to signal submission and stepped into the lion's den.
The dining room was bathed in the amber glow of the chandelier, but the warmth was purely aesthetic. The atmosphere was frigid. I didn't look at them directly, not at first. I let my gaze sweep the room, cataloging the players in this theater of the elite, matching faces to the fearsome reputations I had studied in the shadows.
At the head sat Silas Valentino. He was a man carved out of obsidian, dressed in a charcoal suit so sharp it looked like it could draw blood. He didn't just sit in a chair; he occupied it like a throne. Every line of his face was a testament to decades of ruthless acquisitions; The man wasn't just rich; he was a titan. Ranked fifth on the Forbes 100, Silas Valentino wasn't just rich—he was untouchable. The Valentino name was a global conglomerate healthcare, oil and gas, massive real estate holdings, and Valentino Foods. While the Vanes were a formidable rank 13, those eight spots between us were a vast, yawning canyon of power. Silas didn't negotiate; he dictated. He looked at our dining room as if he were deciding whether to buy the street and tear it down.
Beside him sat Christine Valentino. She was the chilling definition of "Old World" elegance, but I knew she was more than a socialite,she was a shark in silk. Her dress was a structured, blood-red velvet that seemed to absorb the light around her. She ran the Valentino foundations with a velvet-covered iron fist. A collar of diamonds sat heavy on her throat, each stone the size of a knuckle. Her hair was pulled back so tight it made her eyes look like two polished pieces of glass. She didn't move a muscle as I entered, her hands resting on the table with a terrifying, absolute stillness.
And then, there was Beatrice.
Valentino youngest daughter. She sat next to her mother, looking bored enough to scream. She wore a shimmering, champagne-colored slip dress that was far too daring for a Vane dinner, but as a Valentino, she clearly didn't care. She was the only one moving, idly twisting a ring on her finger while her eyes flicked over me with blunt honesty.
"You're late," Beatrice remarked, her voice cutting through the formal silence. She didn't whisper; she didn't soften the blow. She just stated it like a boring fact. "And you're even thinner than the last charity gala, Alessia. Does your chef only cook for the portraits?"
I felt the heat prickle at the back of my neck, the sapphire silk of my dress suddenly feeling like it was made of lead. I didn't dare react. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mother's hand tighten on her wine glass, her knuckles turning white.
"Beatrice, mind your tongue," Christine said, though her voice lacked any real reprimand. It was just a performance of parenting.
"I'm just being honest, Mother," Beatrice shrugged, leaning back and giving my sapphire silk a dismissive once-over. "Blue isn't your color, Alessia. It makes you look ghostly. Like you're fading into the wallpaper."
The comment stung, mostly because it was true. In this house, I was already a ghost.
Mother didn't defend me; she pivoted to marketing. "Alessia has been... dedicated to her studies," she said, her voice dripping with a pride that felt like a coat of cheap paint over rust. She leaned toward Christine, her eyes sparking with the need to one-up the Valentino legacy. "She's currently holding the highest GPA in the medical faculty. The professors tell me her work is quite... revolutionary."
She said it like she was showing off a prize-winning poodle. She hated my research, but in front of the Valentinos, my intellect was just another Vane asset to be flaunted.
"High grades are a sign of a disciplined mind," Silas noted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Though in my experience, people spend so much time in books they forget how the real world works."
"Oh, Silas, don't be grim," Mother laughed, a hollow, musical sound. "We simply believe in excellence in all things. Seraphina with the arts and the estate, Leo with the empire, and Alessia with her... pursuits."
She smiled at me, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes. It was a warning: Don't embarrass me.
"Excellence," Beatrice drawled, finally looking at me. Her eyes were sharp, peeling back the sapphire silk to find the "skeleton" beneath. "Is that what we're calling it? You look like you're one stiff breeze away from shattering, Birdie. Does 'clinical excellence' involve skipping meals, or is that just the Vane aesthetic?"
"Beatrice," Christine warned, though her tone suggested she found the observation more accurate than rude.
"Oren sends his apologies," Mr. Valentino stated, his voice a deep baritone. "A late board meeting. He'll join us for coffee and drinks maybe later."
Then, the first course arrived. The silver domed lids were lifted, and the scent of buttered shrimp flooded the room.
The tension was a physical cord stretched to the breaking point. Then, the servers moved. The silver domes were lifted. The scent of the shrimp hit the table like a chemical leak—sweet, and briny.
I saw the exact moment Silas's expression shifted from boredom to a cold, predatory rage. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He just stared at the pink, buttered curves of the shellfish as if they were a death warrant.
"I hope you find the starter to your liking," Seraphina said, her voice bright and airy. "I personally oversaw the kitchen's preparations today. I wanted everything to be perfect for our guests."
Mr. Valentino didn't touch his fork. He looked at the plate as if it were a live grenade.
"I was under the impression," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, gravelly low, "that the Vanes were aware of my lethal allergy to shellfish. It was explicitly stated in the RSVP."
Mother's smile didn't just fade; it vanished, leaving behind a face of pure, frozen stone. She turned her gaze slowly toward Seraphina.
For a heartbeat, I saw the genuine crack in Seraphina's mask—a flash of raw, panicked realization. She had been so focused on the seating chart and her own reflection that she'd overlooked the one detail that could ruin the night.
But Seraphina was a Vane. She knew exactly how to redirect a storm.
She turned her head, her eyes wide and suddenly swimming with tears, and looked directly at me.
"Alessia?" she gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "I—I gave you the Valentino file this morning. I asked you to call the chef and confirm the restrictions while I was at my fitting. Oh, god... did you forget?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I never saw a file, Seraphina. You didn't—"
"How could you?" she sobbed, a single, perfect tear rolling down her cheek. "Mother, I'm so sorry. I thought she had handled it. I had no idea she would be so... careless."
The lie was so effortless, so smooth, that the entire table turned their gaze toward me. I felt the weight of it—the cold, clinical disgust in my mother's eyes, the sharp boredom in Beatrice's, and the dark, simmering fury in Silas Valentino's.
"I never saw a file, Seraphina," I whispered, my voice sounding small and hollow in the vast dining room.
"How could you?" Seraphina sobbed, a single, perfect tear rolling down her cheek. "I know you've been stressed with school, but to be so careless with Mr. Valentino's life? Mother, I'm so sorry. I thought I could trust her to help with just one thing."
"That's enough," Silas said, standing up. The sound of his chair scraping against the marble was like a gunshot. "We're leaving. I don't stay where the host is either incompetent or homicidal."
He stood, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light of the chandelier. Beside him, Christine rose with a fluid, terrifying grace, her expression as unreadable as a sheet of ice. Beatrice was the only one who looked amused, a small, cynical smirk playing on her lips as she watched the carnage.
"Silas, please—" Mother started, her voice trembling in a way I had never heard before.
"We will discuss the merger another time, Eleanor," Silas interrupted, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous low. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal jacket, not even deigning to look at her. "I am deeply disappointed. To think you would personally alter a menu to include a known toxin... it speaks volumes of your character, or perhaps your lack of it. I expected better from a woman of your standing."
He turned on his heel, his family following in a wake of silent, expensive perfume and cold fury.
The walk to the front door felt like a funeral procession. We stood in the foyer, a line of broken porcelain, as the heavy oak doors were pulled open by the staff. The night air rushed in heavy, humid, and smelling of the storm that was finally beginning to break.
The second the doors clicked shut, signaling the Valentinos' departure, the silence in the foyer became a living thing. It was thick, suffocating, and charged with a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Mother didn't move for a long time. She simply stared at the door, her back to us, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
"Seraphina," Mother said, her voice a low, vibrating hum of rage.
"Mother, I—" Seraphina started, her eyes wide with a fear that I almost believed was real.
"Go to your room. Now."
Seraphina didn't argue. She knew when the predator had found its true target. She gave me one last, triumphant look over her shoulder, a silent thank you for being her shield before she vanished up the stairs, her silk heels clicking against the marble.
Then, Mother turned.
Her face was a mask of marble, her blue eyes bright with a terrifying, cold light. She moved toward me slowly, the sapphire silk of her own dress rustling like a warning.
"You humiliated me." Her voice was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to rattle the very bones in my chest. "In front of the fifth most powerful family in the world. You didn't just sabotage a dinner, Alessia. You tried to sabotage the Vane legacy. You made me look like an amateur. Like a fool who cannot even control her own household."
"Mother, I never saw the file," I whispered. My voice felt like it was coming from the bottom of a well—small, hollow, and utterly ignored. "I swear, Seraphina didn't—"
The slap was a flash of white light.
It was so sudden, so precise, that for a heartbeat, I didn't feel the pain—only the jarring shock of my head snapping to the side. Then the heat bloomed, a searing, throbbing map of her hand across my cheek. The stiff, expensive lace of my Victorian collar bit into my skin as she reached out, her fingers like iron talons, twisting the fabric until the delicate threads groaned and snapped.
She hauled me closer, forcing my eyes to meet hers. Her blue gaze was a frozen wasteland, devoid of a single spark of maternal warmth.
"Liar." She didn't raise her voice, which made the word feel like a needle pressing into my eye. "You are an unfinished, pathetic smudge on this family's name, Alessia. You think your books and your high GPA make you superior? You think your little 'medical pursuits' give you worth? You are nothing but a liability wrapped in expensive silk. A waste of the very air you're currently wasting."
The second blow was another sharp, clinical slap that made my world tilt. But she didn't stop. She never just stopped.
She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging through the sapphire silk and into the skin she spent so much money to keep "perfect."
"You want to be a doctor?" she hissed, her face inches from mine, smelling of expensive wine and cold rage. "You can't even follow a simple instruction. You are a failure in every room you enter."
She swung again, a heavy, backhanded strike that caught me across the ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs. I stumbled back, my heels skidding on the polished marble.
"Please, Madam! Please, that's enough!"
Martha's voice cracked through the foyer. She had appeared from the shadows of the servant's hall, her face ashen, her hands shaking as she threw herself between us. It was a death sentence for her position, but she didn't care. She reached out to catch my mother's arm, her eyes pleading. "She didn't know, Madam. Please, she's too fragile—"
"Get out of my way, Martha!" Mother roared, shoving the older woman aside with a strength that sent Martha stumbling against a pedestal.
In that second of chaos, as Mother turned to snarl at the only person who loved me, something in me snapped. It wasn't bravery; it was pure, animal terror.
I didn't wait for the next strike. I didn't wait for Martha to be hurt on my behalf.
I bolted.
I lunged for the heavy oak door, my fingers fumbling with the brass handle. I heard my mother's sharp intake of breath, her voice calling my name like a curse, but I didn't look back. I wrenched the door open and threw myself out into the night.
The sky didn't just rain; it disintegrated. A violent, freezing deluge thrashed against the stone, turning the world into a fractured blur of gray. I stumbled down the front steps, the sapphire silk of my dress—once a proud Vane armor—instantly drinking the water. It became a heavy, sodden weight, clinging to my skin like a cold shroud, dragging at my limbs with every desperate movement.
Every step was a fresh agony.
The "correction" had left my side screaming; a sharp, localized fire flared in my ribs with every hitch of my breath. My hip, where I'd been shoved against the marble, throbbed in a rhythmic, sickening pulse that made my vision swim. I wasn't just running; I was dragging a broken version of myself through the dark.
My heels skidded on the loose gravel of the drive. I went down hard, the sharp stones biting into my palms and knees, but the physical sting was dull compared to the hollow, echoing roar in my head. I forced myself up, my muscles trembling with a fatigue that went bone-deep. I didn't care about the blood mixing with the rain on my shins. I just needed the gates. I needed the dark to swallow the smudge I had become.
I was halfway down the drive, blinded by the downpour and the stinging salt of my own tears, when the world suddenly stopped.
I slammed into a wall of solid, unyielding heat.
The impact was jarring, a shoulder-to-shoulder collision that sent a lightning bolt of pain through my bruised ribs. I gasped, my head snapping back as I felt the rough, damp texture of expensive wool beneath my fingertips. For a split second, the air was filled with a scent that didn't belong to the Vane estate—the grounding, smoky aroma of woodsmoke and rain-drenched earth.
I didn't stop. I couldn't afford to. I didn't even lift my head to see the man I had nearly leveled. I just pushed past him with a frantic, sobbing strength, my figure already disappearing into the gray veil of the storm as I sprinted for the street.
OREN POV
The wipers on the Maybach fought a losing battle against the deluge, but I barely noticed. I was too busy staring at the back of my driver's head, wishing I could order him to pull a U-turn and head straight back to the city.
I didn't want to be here. I hadn't wanted to be here when the invitation arrived, and I certainly didn't want to be here now, after six hours of back-to-back board meetings that had left my brain feeling like frayed wire. But in the Valentino family, "desire" was a luxury we traded for "duty" a long time ago. My father had made it clear: the merger with the Vanes wasn't just a business move; it was a consolidation of power that required my physical presence.
"Show them the face of the future, Oren," he'd said, his voice as dry as parchment. "Remind them why they need us more than we need them."
So, here I was. Forced into a tuxedo I felt like I was suffocating in, pulling up to a monstrous white stone estate that looked more like a mausoleum than a home.
The car came to a smooth halt. I didn't move for a moment, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. I could already envision the night: Eleanor Vane's suffocatingly perfect hospitality, my father's predatory silence, and a dinner that would taste like ash and obligations.
"We've arrived, sir," the driver murmured.
"I'm aware," I snapped, the fatigue making my voice sharper than intended.
I stepped out of the car, and the wind immediately tried to rip the breath from my lungs. I adjusted the collar of my coat, shielding my face from the freezing spray, and started toward the house. I was already calculating how early I could make a polite exit. Twenty minutes for the apology, ten for a drink, and maybe I could be back in my own apartment by midnight.
I didn't even make it three steps.
Something—someone—slammed into me with the force of a runaway freight train.
The collision was violent. My boots skidded on the wet gravel as I struggled to keep my footing. A sharp, localized heat bloomed in my chest where the impact hit, and for a heartbeat, my hands instinctively went out to steady the person.
That was when I felt it.
Through the soaked, freezing silk, there was no substance to her. She felt impossibly small—nothing but a collection of sharp, delicate bones that seemed like they might snap under the weight of the rain itself. My fingers momentarily brushed against shoulders that were far too narrow, a ribcage that felt fragile enough to crush, and a frame so thin it felt like holding onto a bird in a storm.
I heard a sound—a broken, jagged sob that was so raw it made the hair on my neck stand up. It wasn't the sound of someone who'd had a bad night; it was the sound of someone who had just been shattered.
I caught a flash of wet, sapphire silk and a scent of crushed lilies—sweet and funeral-still—before she was gone. She didn't look at me. She didn't apologize. She just pushed past with a desperate, animal strength and vanished into the gray sheets of rain.
I stood frozen, the freezing water soaking into my hair, staring at the empty space where she had been. My shoulder throbbed where she'd hit me, a lingering vibration of her panic still thrumming in my own bones.
I looked toward the house. The front doors were wide open, spilling a rectangle of hollow, golden light onto the rain-slicked stone. It looked less like an invitation and more like a crime scene.
"What the hell was that?" I muttered, the wind stealing the words.
I looked down at my shoes, now splattered with mud from the gravel she'd kicked up, then back at the fading silhouette.
"Well," I muttered, the rain drenching my collar. "That's an interesting welcome."