Chapter 3

She walked in like she owned the place.

The worst part? She used to.

The iron doors of the Moretti estate opened at exactly seven. The guards snapped to attention before anyone even saw her face.

Vivienne Montgomery never made an entrance she hadn't rehearsed.

I heard her first.

The sharp click of stilettos on marble.

The housekeeper's startled gasp.

Then the sudden silence that swallowed the foyer whole—like the entire compound had been holding its breath for three years, waiting for the right woman to walk back through the door.

I was standing at the top of the staircase when she appeared.

God, she was stunning.

She'd always been stunning—the kind of beautiful that bent a room around her like gravity. Honey-blonde hair falling over one shoulder, a cream Dior coat draped like she’d just stepped off a private jet from Milan.

Her lips were the kind of red that said I belong here.

She looked up. Our eyes met.

Green to brown.

Vivienne smiled at me the way you smile at hired help.

“Darling!”

But her arms weren’t opening for me. They opened for the man stepping out of the study behind me.

Marcus Moretti. Don of the Moretti family.

My husband.

“I'm home,” she said softly.

I watched Marcus descend the staircase. He stopped two steps from the bottom, knuckles white around the banister.

Vivienne closed the distance and wrapped her arms around his neck like she had never left.

Like the past three years had been a commercial break.

Marcus didn’t hug her back.

But he didn’t push her away either.

Somehow that was worse.

“Marcus,” she murmured against his chest. “I missed you.”

His jaw tightened. One hand lifted—hovered near her back.

Then dropped.

"Vivienne." Just her name.

But the way he said it—low, rough, like a word he’d swallowed for three years—split something inside my ribs clean in half.

She pulled away and climbed the stairs toward me.

Took both my hands.

Her fingers were ice cold.

Her perfume was Chanel No.5 and entitlement.

"Iris." she said sweetly. "My poor little sister."

A pause.

Then the smile sharpened.

“Thank you for filling in.”

Filling in.

Like I was a temp worker. A placeholder. Something you delete once the real file comes back.

“Welcome home,” I said. My voice didn’t shake.

Three years had given me that much.

Dinner that night was theater.

Vivienne sat beside Marcus.

My seat.

No one said a word.

She laughed easily, touching his arm as she spoke, telling stories about their past like a highlight reel of a life I had never been invited into.

“Remember the gala at the Art Institute?” she said. “You spilled champagne on the mayor’s wife and I had to rescue you.”

“I remember,” Marcus said flatly.

Her fingers drifted over his sleeve again.

“And Christmas here,” she continued brightly. “Your grandfather kept asking when we’d give him grandchildren—”

Her voice stopped.

Her gaze slid to me. Then dropped—just for a second—to my stomach.

Something moved behind her eyes. Quick. Calculating.

I pushed my chair back.

The scrape echoed through the dining room.

No one stopped me.

I was halfway down the hallway when Julian caught up.

Marcus’s younger brother.

The diplomat.

The smiling knife.

“You forgot your wine,” he said.

But he was holding water.

He handed me the glass.

“Then again,” he added casually, “you probably shouldn’t be drinking.”

My fingers froze.

Julian leaned lazily against the wall.

“I’m not your enemy, Iris.”

“What do you want?”

"To point something out." He tilted his chin toward the dining room. Vivienne's laughter drifted down the hall. "You think she's the most dangerous person in that room."

"Isn't she?"

"No." His smile pulled wider. Slower. "You are."

I stared at him.

“You’re holding something she came back for,” he continued softly.“The Moretti name.”

A pause.

“And if there happens to be an heir on the way…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

"Sleep well, Iris." His voice dropped half a register. "Lock your door tonight."

I didn't lock my door.

Because when I reached my room on the third floor, it was already cracked open.

The bed looked untouched. The curtains hung where I'd left them. But the pillow—my pillow—was tilted. Shifted two inches to the left. An angle I would never leave it.

I crossed the room. Lifted it.

The pregnancy test was gone.

My knees nearly buckled.

Someone had been here.

In my room.

In my bed.

The only place in this house that had ever been mine.

Marcus—who hadn’t stepped on this floor in three years?

Vivienne—who’d stared at my stomach across the dinner table?

Or Julian—who told me to lock my door?

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Does Marcus know he's going to be a father? Or should I tell him?

My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.

Then another message arrived.

A photo this time. Taken from above. My bathroom. This morning. Me, sitting on the tile floor in my nightgown, holding the test up to the light.

The angle was the smoke detector. The camera had been above my head the entire time.

Someone had been watching.

Watching the entire time.

And if the camera was still live…

Then whoever sent the message was watching me right now.

And they already knew about the baby.