Chapter 3

The backstage dressing room had been hastily converted into a media lounge and styling area. The lighting was a sterile white, and the air smelled of foundation and hairspray — like a courtroom that had been given a makeover.

I had barely taken my seat when the stylist stepped forward, her tone polite but devoid of warmth. "Ma'am, the Don's instructions are to keep the makeup understated today. A more haggard look will be more convincing."

"Haggard?" I glanced up at her.

"Yes." She avoided my eyes. "It'll better fit the image of a woman who lost control over jealousy."

I didn't argue. I let her deepen the shadows on my face, deliberately wash out the color, and push my already pale complexion closer to something sickly.

The woman in the mirror looked like someone who'd gone to desperate lengths in a jealous rage — not the daughter of an exiled noble whose mother was being kept alive on borrowed medication.

The door swung open.

Chiara walked in, trailed by two stylists and an assistant. Her makeup today was luminous and soft, her golden curls brushed to a silken shine.

She didn't speak right away. Instead, she circled behind me and met my gaze through the mirror.

"Sofia," she began gently, "I heard you agreed to do the press conference. I'm touched."

I stared at her flawless reflection and said nothing.

She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a register only the two of us could hear. "You should have understood a long time ago — your place was never at Marco's side. It was wherever was most convenient for shielding him from trouble he shouldn't have to deal with."

"Convenient?" I echoed tonelessly.

"Like today." She smiled. "You admit you were jealous. You admit you had the footage made. The family forgives Marco for a lapse in judgment, and forgives him for choosing you in the first place."

I looked up at her.

"One hundred thousand."

She blinked.

"That's my fee for taking the hit on this one. Consider it your share of the cost." My voice was level. "Unless you'd prefer I improvise a few lines at the podium."

The dressing room went dead quiet.

Her smile stiffened for half a second before the composure returned. She took a checkbook from her assistant, wrote a figure, and set it lightly in front of me.

"A hundred thousand — that's nothing. Think of it as a tip." She tilted her head. "You really haven't changed at all, have you? Money always comes first."

I didn't respond. I simply pocketed the check.

She straightened, apparently done with pleasantries, and pulled a black metal card from her handbag, waving it in my line of sight.

"Do you know what this is?"

Of course I did.

It was the secondary authorization card for the controlled medication — issued only by the Don.

"Marco mentioned," she said lightly, "that you've been worrying about the supply quota lately. So he handed the secondary card to me for safekeeping — to keep you from doing anything reckless."

I stared at the card. My throat felt like it had closed around something solid.

"Your mother's treatment account draws from this card," she went on. "Which means if I were to accidentally suspend the authorization, her medication supply would be cut off immediately."

I lifted my gaze. For the first time, it went cold.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Threatening?" She shook her head delicately. "No. I'm only reminding you what today's press conference is really about."

She stepped closer, her voice sweet as venom.

"Read the script like a good girl, and your mother's quota stays intact. But if you decide to go off-book — if you say anything you shouldn't — I can't guarantee the card won't suffer an accidental glitch."

I didn't say another word.

Because I knew perfectly well: if she said it, she meant it.

A staff member called from outside the door: "Five minutes to stage."

Chiara stepped back and reassembled her serene, gracious mask.

"Don't be nervous," she smiled. "We're all doing this for Marco."

I said nothing. But just as she turned to leave, my phone buzzed once.

A system notification lit up the screen.

[Medication Quota Account: Weekly authorization under adjustment. Please check back later.]

My heart lurched.

I tapped through to the details and found a single line of icy text.

[Current authorization status: Pending confirmation.]

I looked up at Chiara.

She stood in the doorway, glancing back at me. The smile on her lips said everything.

"Just a system update," she murmured. "Don't overthink it."

The door closed.

I stared down at the phone screen, my fingers tightening around it by slow degrees.

If it were just a system update, why had the authorization status switched to "pending confirmation"?

And who held the power to confirm — that, I knew all too well.

Beyond the door, I could already hear the emcee's opening remarks. Camera flashes bled through the gaps.

I took a deep breath and shoved the phone back into my bag.

My mother's life hung on a single card, a string of digits, and a few words.

And I was about to walk onto that stage and pour a bucket of filth over my own head.

As the lights blazed on, a single thought crystallized:

If the medication was truly cut today, there would be no second chance.