Chapter 2

Lucien appeared in the dining room the next morning—rare enough to be noteworthy.

The long table gleamed with exquisite silverware. In front of me sat simple toast and coffee. At his side was a perfectly plated smoked salmon eggs Benedict.

The moment I reached my fork toward the tempting poached egg, his hand snapped against my wrist with a sharp *smack*. Not gently.

“That’s for Cinda,” he said flatly, without even looking at me. “Don’t you like croissants? I had the kitchen make you almond croissants.”

I froze. My fork clattered against the porcelain plate.

Slowly, I lifted my eyes and met his gray-blue gaze—the eyes I once believed held affection.

“Lucien,” I said softly, yet the air in the room seemed to solidify, “we’ve been together three years. You don’t even know I’m allergic to eggs?”

His expression stalled for a fraction of a second before hard irritation replaced it.

He rose abruptly, towering over me. “Do you really have to make trouble right now? Eat it or throw it away. I don’t care.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” I said calmly.

I returned to the bedroom, retrieved a velvet pouch, and set it before him on the table.

“When you see Lucinda, return this to her. Her ‘little things’ accidentally ended up in our bedroom.”

Lucien opened the pouch, glanced inside. A rare flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. He opened his mouth, then merely said stiffly, “I’ll remind Cinda to keep her things in order.”

He grabbed his coat and left without another word.

Half an hour later, I drove myself to the Moretti family’s front-facing trading company, ignoring the faint ache in my abdomen.

The moment I stepped into my cramped cubicle—the one genuinely used for handling “legitimate” accounts—I felt the looks from all directions: pity laced with mockery.

In the break room, I “accidentally” overheard hushed whispers.

“…So Mr. Lucien really sidelined Seraphina for Lucinda?”

“Absolutely. Didn’t you see this morning? Lucinda ‘twisted her ankle’ in the hallway. In front of all the family heads, Mr. Lucien scooped her up and carried her straight to his top-floor private suite. Called every family doctor up there!”

The ceramic mug slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

I crouched slowly and picked up the sharp fragments one by one.

Once, when fighting for control of a dock for the family, I’d broken two ribs. Lucien had only ordered a quick bandage.

“Sera,” he’d said, “you stand beside me. You can’t act like those delicate women. Plenty of our brothers are injured. Be strong.”

“Miss Seraphina…” someone approached to help.

“Don’t,” I said coldly. “I’ll do it myself.”

Back in my office, files were piled high—every dirty task Lucien had tossed to me. Money laundering. Smuggling. Bribery.

I opened my computer and began working. At the same time, I quietly logged into another system and began dismantling the network I had built for him.

East Coast’s largest arms supplier—Vulture.

A brief email: *Terminate cooperation.*

Three minutes later: *Understood, Miss Seraphina. Thank you for three years of partnership.*

West Coast laundering channel—Seagull Group. Authorizations revoked.

Swiss bank accounts. Passwords and beneficiaries changed.

All of it happening silently.

Lucien had no idea that the empire he took pride in was collapsing beneath my fingertips.

At eleven that night, I was still working when a weight settled over my shoulders—Lucien’s coat. And a small dessert box.

“Sera,” he said from behind me. “Why didn’t you reply?”

I checked my phone. A message from him:

*What flavor macarons do girls usually like?*

Three years ago, after nights without sleep handling a shipment, I’d asked him to bring me tiramisu at dawn.

He’d looked at me with faint disgust and impatience. “Sera, you’re Lucien Moretti’s woman. Don’t act like those ordinary girls.”

Now he brought me macarons.

I locked my screen and didn’t touch the box.

He opened it. “It’s for you. Haven’t you always wanted some?”

“It’s too late. I won’t sleep,” I said dismissively.

After a moment, he said, “I’m going to the restroom. Then we’ll go home together.”

Less than thirty seconds after he left, his phone lit up.

Lucinda:

*Connie, you idiot! Who told you to buy a dozen macarons? Are you trying to make me chubby? I’ll faint if I gain weight!*

*Good thing you took the free box away, or my calories would’ve gone way over!*

So the macarons were her free extra.

I turned off the screen and kept working.

…

That night, I packed quietly. The few small, lethal items that truly belonged to **Seraphina Cassiani**.

Lucien emerged from the shower and frowned at the emptier closet.

“Sera, I’m going to Parma next week for business. Make a list—what do you want?”

“No need. I don’t want anything.” I zipped up a small titanium case. In a few days, I would disappear completely.

He threw the towel onto the bed. “Because of breakfast this morning, you’re going to sulk all day?”

Before I could answer, he scoffed. “You know I hate women who lack perspective. Sera—you’ve crossed the line.”

He strode into the study and slammed the door.

For three years, this kind of cold war had happened countless times. Every time, I’d been the one to compromise.

This time, no knock came at that closed door.