Chapter 10 Hidden Past Revealed

Ivan's POV

I slammed the door to my study shut, the echo of it rattling through the empty halls. My hands were still shaking.

From the adrenaline. From the way Adriana had looked at me after the kiss. From the way her lips had parted like she was about to say something, but didn't.

I pressed my palms to the cool wood of the door and closed my eyes.

What the hell was happening to me?

She wasn't supposed to matter.

She was supposed to be another pawn in this endless, bloody game. A means to an end. A marriage arranged to protect what was left of our empires.

But somewhere between the hatred in her eyes and the fire in her touch, something inside me had started to burn.

And now, I couldn't put it out.

I pushed off the door and crossed the room, the soft creak of the wooden floors following me. I needed a drink. Something strong.

The whiskey burned my throat as I took a long gulp straight from the bottle.

The gala had been a disaster.

Antonio Morelli slinking around like a snake, whispering poison in Adriana's ear.

Natsumi watching me like she still owned a piece of me.

Adriana walking straight into a trap meant to make her disappear, like a ghost swallowed by the night.

I could still feel the panic clawing at my chest when I saw her step toward that darkened hallway. I didn't think. I didn't plan.

I just grabbed her. Kissed her.

It was the only way I knew to stop her.

And maybe - maybe - because I wanted to kiss her. More than I'd wanted anything in a very long time.

I rubbed my hand over my jaw, the scruff there rough against my palm.

"Get a grip, Ivan," I muttered to myself.

But the more I tried to shove the thought of her away, the more it clung to me like smoke.

I needed a distraction.

Something - anything - to remind me who I was before she walked into my life and turned it upside down.

I stalked toward the heavy mahogany desk at the corner of the room. Piles of files and old photographs were stacked there, evidence I hadn't looked at in years. Some of it belonged to my father. Some belonged to the past I tried to forget.

I yanked open a drawer and started flipping through the papers. Birth records. Ledgers. Marriage contracts.

And then I found it.

A thin envelope, yellowed with age, tucked beneath a pile of old invoices. My name was scrawled across the front in my mother's delicate handwriting.

My stomach twisted.

Slowly, I opened it.

Inside was a photograph. A simple one. Faded at the edges, like it had been touched a thousand times.

Two women stood together, arms around each other, laughing like the world hadn't yet torn them apart.

I knew one of them immediately.

The soft brown hair, the wide, warm smile - my mother.

But the other woman...

My heart stuttered.

It was Adriana's mother.

There was no mistaking it - the same proud tilt of her chin, the same storm in her dark eyes.

I sank into the chair behind the desk, the picture trembling in my hands.

They knew each other.

More than that. They had been close. Friends, maybe. Or something more complicated.

But why had no one ever told me?

Why had my father made it seem like the Romanos were nothing more than enemies to be destroyed?

Why had Adriana been fed the same lies about my family?

The more I stared at the photo, the more questions piled up in my mind.

What else were we not being told?

What secrets had been buried so deep that it had taken blood and marriage to start uncovering them?

I thought of Adriana, her eyes flashing with anger, her lips trembling after I kissed her.

The way she had trusted me enough - even for a second - to let me pull her away from danger.

If I told her about this, about our mothers, it would change everything.

It would rip the last shred of distance between us.

Or it would destroy the fragile thing we were starting to build.

The door creaked open.

Adriana stood there, still wearing her gala dress - the silk clinging to her curves, her hair a wild mess from the chaos earlier. Her eyes were tired but burning.

"I thought you might be in here," she said quietly.

Her gaze dropped to the photo in my hand.

"What's that?"

For a second, I didn't move. I could have lied. I could have slipped the photo into a drawer and kept it hidden.

But something in me - something I barely recognized anymore - didn't want to lie to her.

I held it out.

Wordlessly.

She crossed the room and took it.

I watched her face, watched the way her eyes widened, her breath caught.

"That's..." she whispered, trailing off.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the faces in the photo.

"My mother," she said finally.

"And yours."

She sank into the chair across from me, the photo clutched to her chest like a shield.

"They were friends?" she asked, voice hoarse.

I shook my head slowly.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"But they knew each other. Well enough to take a picture like that."

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

"What else have they lied about?" she whispered.

The pain in her voice was like a knife twisting inside me.

"I don't know," I said again, hating how useless the words felt.

She looked up at me then, and in that moment, something shifted.

Not hate.

Not anger.

But something rawer. Deeper.

We were two people standing on a crumbling bridge, knowing one wrong step could send us both falling into the abyss.

But maybe - just maybe - we could rebuild it.

Together.

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees.

"I'll help you find the truth, Adriana," I said, my voice rough.

"No more lies. No more secrets."

Her eyes shone with something that wasn't quite trust, but wasn't doubt either.

It was hope.

A fragile, dangerous thing in a world like ours.

She nodded slowly.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we could survive this.