Chapter 3 The Night She Fell

The reception was a haze.

Soft music. Clinking glasses. The low murmur of forced conversation, all blurred together like brushstrokes on a fogged canvas. Valeria moved through it like a ghost in silk-smiling when required, raising her champagne flute when prompted, nodding as strangers offered hollow congratulations for a union she hadn't chosen.

Her dress shimmered with every step, a handcrafted masterpiece from the Casa Moretti atelier, but it felt like a costume. A cage of satin and lace.

She hadn't eaten. She wasn't hungry. Her stomach was a knot of dread and disbelief. The ceremony played over and over in her mind like a broken reel-Dario's pixelated image on a screen, the forced vows, Ivana's pressure-laced whispers. And the signature. Her signature.

It was only when she took a sip of champagne that she noticed it-the taste.

Faintly metallic. Bittersweet. Something off.

She paused, frowned slightly, then brushed the thought away. Of course the drink would taste different. She hadn't eaten, her nerves were frayed, and the tension in the room was unbearable. She chalked it up to exhaustion.

But as the night wore on, her world began to tilt.

At first, it was subtle. A flicker at the edge of her vision. The chandeliers seemed too bright. The voices too far away. She reached for another glass of water but couldn't quite grasp it on the first try.

Then came the dizziness.

The floor moved beneath her feet like a shifting tide. She gripped the back of a chair to steady herself, blinking rapidly. Her heart pounded. Her lips tingled. A strange heat crept up her spine.

She tried to find Ivana but couldn't see her through the crowd. Her eyes searched for Gianna instead, and found her standing near the bar, laughing at something one of the Levanis men had said. Their gazes met.

Gianna's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She tilted her head slightly and crossed the room with the casual elegance of someone who didn't have a care in the world.

"Sister," she said sweetly, leaning in close. Her perfume was overpowering-sharp, floral, cloying. "You look like you need some rest."

Valeria tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat.

Gianna leaned even closer, lips brushing Valeria's ear. "Sweet dreams, sister."

Then darkness.

The world collapsed around her like a closing curtain. The music faded, the lights disappeared, and gravity pulled her down into a velvet-lined abyss.

Valeria woke with the taste of iron in her mouth.

Her tongue felt thick. Her throat burned. The light pouring through the curtains was too bright-harsh, clinical, unforgiving. She groaned and turned her head, but even the slight movement sent a stab of pain through her skull. It was like being caught between sleep and nightmare, unable to escape either one.

She blinked slowly, struggling to bring the room into focus.

The bed she lay in was far too large, its headboard carved from dark wood, ornate and unfamiliar. The sheets were crisp, pale, and scented faintly with something floral and foreign. Everything was pristine-cold, quiet, and utterly unfamiliar.

This wasn't her penthouse.

This wasn't Milan.

A jolt of panic shot through her as she forced herself upright, immediately regretting it. The room spun, and she gagged, the iron taste still thick on her tongue. Her head pounded like a war drum, every heartbeat sending a fresh wave of pain behind her eyes.

Barefoot, disoriented, she pushed the heavy blankets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The marble floor was ice against her skin. A thousand questions raced through her fogged mind, none of them with answers.

Where am I?

What happened?

What did they do to me?

She spotted her dress draped over a nearby armchair. It had been removed and carefully laid out, as though by someone trying to be respectful. She wore a silk nightgown now-one she didn't recognize. Not hers.

That small detail hit harder than expected.

Someone had undressed her. Someone had chosen what she wore. Someone had taken her body-unconscious-and placed it in this bed like a doll.

Panic rose like bile in her throat.

She stumbled to the door, every step a struggle against the dizziness that clung to her like a second skin. The handle was brass, polished, and when she opened the door, light from the hallway spilled in.

Waiting just outside was a young woman in a grey maid's uniform. She stood with perfect posture, hands folded, eyes downcast. At the sound of the door opening, she looked up and bowed slightly.

"Mrs. Levanis," she said in accented English. "Welcome to your new home."

Valeria froze.

"What did you call me?" she whispered.

"Mrs. Levanis," the maid repeated politely. "Mr. Levanis said you would need time to adjust. Breakfast is being prepared. Would you like to freshen up before joining him?"

Her stomach turned.

None of this was real. It couldn't be. There had been no honeymoon plans, no mention of travel-no discussion at all. The last thing she remembered clearly was Gianna's voice, like a lullaby soaked in poison.

Sweet dreams.

"What city is this?" Valeria asked sharply.

The maid blinked, confused by the question. "You are in Athens, madam. This is the Levanis estate."

Athens. Greece. Not Milan. Not Italy. Not home.

Valeria's fingers gripped the doorframe to stay upright. Every piece began to slide into place, sickening and slow. The rushed wedding, the champagne, the missing groom, the forged consent, the blurred lines between illusion and legality-it was a trap. A beautifully orchestrated kidnapping cloaked in the illusion of matrimony.

She had been stolen.

"I need a phone," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Now."

"I will notify Mr. Levanis' assistant," the maid replied softly. "He prefers all requests to go through him."

Of course he does.

Valeria closed the door without another word and leaned against it, the cool wood grounding her. Her breathing was shallow. She was alone in a foreign country, married to a man she had never met in person, surrounded by strangers, and with no clear path to freedom.

Her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room showed a pale, trembling version of herself. Her eyes, once sharp with confidence, were now wide with disbelief.

But somewhere behind that fear, buried beneath the fog and betrayal, something flickered.

Not defeat.

Not yet.

They thought they could drug her, move her, cage her, and she would simply play the role they assigned.

But Valeria Moretti was not a victim.

Not anymore.

Not again.