Chapter 3 3

Seraphina POV

Damien's grip was a vice on my arm as he hauled me up the stone steps from the basement. We stepped into the Stark estate's library-a suffocating, cavernous room built of dark mahogany, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the heavy, masculine scent of aged whiskey and Silas's cigars.

The core of the Stark family was already gathered. The moment I was shoved into the light, Isabella lunged.

"She's a ghost! A liar!" she shrieked, her ruined wedding dress dragging across the Persian rug like a dirty rag. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her eyes wide with a manic, terrified energy. "She is dead! Arabella is dead! I know she is!"

The room froze.

*I know she is.*

It was a fatal slip of the tongue, born of pure, unadulterated terror. Marco, pale as a corpse, reached out to calm her, but she shoved his hands away violently. I shrank back against the nearest bookshelf, playing the traumatized, fragile victim to perfection. But even as I kept my eyes downcast, I could feel Damien's pitch-black gaze burning into the side of my face. He wasn't looking at a victim; he was dissecting a puzzle, his dark eyes stripping away my layers.

Silas silenced Isabella with a single, glacial look that commanded absolute obedience.

Aunt Francesca stepped forward, her pragmatic eyes sweeping over the room. "If we kill her now, the Gallos and Falcones will eventually ask questions," she stated, her voice devoid of emotion. "We cannot risk a war over a botched wedding. We need a narrative, Silas." She folded her hands neatly. "Arabella has returned, her mind fractured by trauma. The Stark family welcomes her home. The Moretti union is indefinitely postponed."

Silas gave a slow, heavy nod. The *Don* had spoken. I had won my title back, but the heavy oak doors of this estate had just become my permanent prison walls.

Isabella let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream. "You're going to let this... this whore from the gutter ruin everything?"

From a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace, Aunt Sofia took a slow sip of her sherry. "The Moretti girl should learn gratitude," the older woman drawled, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. "You are merely a replacement, Isabella. Be glad you still have a pulse, let alone a postponed engagement."

Isabella's face mottled with rage. She whirled on Marco, her chest heaving. "Are you going to let them do this? My father will crush your family for this insult! He will burn Chicago to the ground!"

Marco flinched. The cowardice radiated from his pores as he stood paralyzed between his grandfather's decree and his fiancée's wrath.

"Get out," Silas ordered, waving a dismissive hand. "All of you."

Damien lingered for a fraction of a second, his gaze promising we weren't done, before stalking out of the room. I slipped out into the dimly lit corridor, the thick carpet muffling my steps.

Before I could reach the main staircase, a hand clamped over my wrist, yanking me roughly into a shadowed alcove beneath a portrait of a dead Stark patriarch.

It was Marco. His breath smelled of stale champagne and rising panic.

"Arabella," he whispered, his voice trembling with a sickeningly fake affection. "God, I missed you. I loved you, you know I did."

I stared at him, my face a blank, unreadable mask.

"But you have to understand," he rushed on, his grip tightening painfully on my wrist. "The alliance with the Morettis... it's too important. For me. For the family's future." He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the empty corridor. "You need to tell my grandfather your mind is gone. Tell him you need to go to a convent, or a sanitarium in Switzerland. I'll make sure you're taken care of. You'll have money, comfort. Just... disappear."

The sheer audacity of his betrayal extinguished any lingering doubt I had. He was willing to throw his "beloved wife" into an asylum just to secure his political power and his mistress. This was the man my sister had died for.

I looked into his pathetic, desperate eyes and let a cold, razor-sharp smile touch my lips.

"No, Marco," I whispered softly, pulling my wrist from his grasp. "I am home."

His expression shattered. The pleading mask melted away, replaced by pure, venomous hatred. He realized I wasn't going to be his sacrificial lamb. Panic overtaking his reason, Marco lunged forward and grabbed my arm again, his fingers digging brutally into my flesh.

If he couldn't manipulate me in the shadows, he was going to force my hand in the light. Without another word, he dragged me out of the alcove, pulling me forcefully down the corridor toward the Grand Foyer.