My days started before the sun. No silk robes. No champagne. Just bruises, blood, and war games.

The Corvatti estate didn’t believe in easing anyone into power—not even blood heirs. Especially not me.

Before dawn, I was already on the marble floor of the private training wing, muscles burning, fists taped, throat dry from silence. There was no time for comfort. Not in this house. Not in my life.

“You want power?” my combat instructor barked, circling me like a wolf. “Then earn it. Bleed for it.”

And I did.

Every punch I threw came from something deeper—shame, anger, the weight of every year I spent serving people who thought I was nothing.

Matteo didn’t just want me trained. He wanted me ready for war.

He brought in advisors from all across Europe—strategy experts, economists, defense negotiators. Every day was a rotation of lessons: manipulation, pressure points, deal-making, deception.

By lunch, I was seated with his personal linguist, reciting Arabic and French until my jaw ached.

“Say it again,” he would repeat. “Without sounding like a child.”

I just obeyed.

Because fluency in politics meant survival. And in Velmorra, survival was the first step to power.

In every room, one man watched more closely than the rest.

Luca Venturo.

He didn’t belong to my family—not by blood, at least. He was the eldest son of the Venturo syndicate, the one family considered neutral, untouchable.

Once, his father tried to rebel. Matteo crushed the attempt without lifting a finger. But instead of destroying the Venturos, he took their son. Raised him as an ally. Taught him everything: strategy, discipline, control. And in return, Luca gave Matteo something he rarely trusted anyone with: loyalty.

That’s why he was always here. Why my father let him into every closed-door meeting. Every plan. Every future.

And he watched me like I was a puzzle no one had solved yet.

He had this stillness to him. Like a storm that knew exactly when to strike.

The first time we saw each other again, I was still reeling from the truth—still learning how to carry the weight of the Corvatti name. He looked at me without pity. Without caution.

He looked at me like he was waiting for me to realize who I really was.

That morning in the training hall, I was paired with a new sparring partner. A cocky soldier who clearly thought I was still soft from being a Morelli wife.

He was wrong.

I ducked under his strike, spun, and slammed him flat onto his back in one clean move.

The thud echoed across the room.

Silence followed.

Then a low chuckle from the corner.

I glanced over.

Luca.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable—except for the glint of something amused in his eyes.

“I hope you don’t break me next,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow, grabbing a towel from the bench. “Tempting.”

He walked toward me, offering another towel. Our fingers brushed.

“Practicing for someone?” I asked.

“Only myself,” he said without looking up. “You?”

“Same.”

“Then spar me.”

I stepped into the ring without another word.

We circled. Not like enemies. Not like friends either. Something in between. Something sharper.

He moved fast. Clean. Calculated. But I moved like I had something to prove.

Our arms clashed. Our legs tangled. Sweat clung to my skin. Still, I didn’t step back.

He came close—too close. His breath brushed my cheek.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for something.”

“Am I wrong?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “You look at me like you’re choosing not to kiss me.”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I grabbed his arm, shifted my weight, and threw him over my shoulder.

He landed hard, groaning as his back hit the ground.

I stood over him, panting, a smirk curling on my lips.

“Consider that a warning.”

Luca stared up at me, eyes sparkling.

“I’m not afraid of warnings,” he said. “I’m afraid of not trying again.”