The chandeliers above flickered like nervous stars, casting a golden glow that couldn’t quite warm the room. Their light touched everything but trusted nothing—just like the people gathered beneath them.

Velvet skirts swept softly across the marble floor, whispers dressed in fabric. Silverware chimed like nervous bells, and conversations danced politely on the surface, hiding teeth beneath each toast. Every chair, every plate, every name card had been positioned like chess pieces. Allies and enemies disguised themselves in silks and smiles.

I sat at the head of the long table.

No embroidery. No glitter. Just midnight blue silk draped like command over my shoulders, my back straight, my chin held high. I didn’t need diamonds. The crown in this room wasn’t worn—it was felt.

And then the doors opened.

No guards. No footmen. No damn announcement.

Just heels—clicking like a warning. Red heels.

Valentina.

She walked in as though this dinner had been thrown in her honor. Like she was still relevant. Her dress clung to her like desperation, too tight, too red, too loud. Her smile was sharp, insincere. It didn’t reach her eyes. It never did.

And then behind her, of course, came her.

Gianna Morelli.

The family snake in pearls. Her presence hit the room like smoke: creeping, choking, unwelcome. She didn’t look at anyone. Not even me. Especially not me. Her chin was high, her hands clasped like a prayer she hadn’t earned.

Conversations stalled. Forks hovered mid-air. The staff froze.

Because everyone knew.

They weren’t invited.

And they walked in anyway.

Valentina voice slid across the marble like oil. “How embarrassing,” she purred. “Throwing a party in a house that was never yours to begin with.”

She picked up a glass from a tray that wasn’t hers and sipped like she owned the air in her lungs.

“I was born in this seat,” I said coldly, eyes locked on hers. “You just married your way into a title you couldn’t keep.”

A woman three seats down choked on her wine. Another coughed into her napkin to hide a laugh.

Valentina’s lips curled, venom barely held back. “Dante’s only mistake was letting you leave instead of dragging you out by your hair.”

Luca appeared behind me like a storm disguised in silk. His voice was low and lethal. “And yours,” he said, “was thinking you could walk back in without consequences.”

Valentina stiffened. Her hand twitched near a butter knife. Gianna finally looked at Luca—and flinched. The room tilted. No one dared to speak.

Still, I stayed seated.

“Tell me,” I said smoothly, “do you break into all your exes’ dinner parties or just the ones that remind you you’ve been replaced?”

Valentina mouth pinched, but Gianna—bless her tacky soul—was not done embarrassing herself.

“DON’T be so full of yourself,” Gianna spat. “If I wanted to, I would have that seat.”

“No,” I said, finally rising to my feet. “Getting this seat is not in the books for you. Never was. Like your class.”

Gasps. Actual gasps.

I let the silence settle.

“I think it’s time you left,” I said clearly. “Both of you.”

Gianna stepped forward. “You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” I said, nodding to the guards by the door. “And I am.”

Valentina laughed, a brittle, high-pitched thing. “You’ll regret this,” she sneered. “We all know this little empire won’t last. You’re a scandal. A girl pretending to be a queen.”

I took a step forward. The air around me thickened.

“You’re wrong,” I whispered. “I’m not pretending. I don’t have to.”

Then louder, to the whole room: “Escort these women out. They’re no longer welcome in this house. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The guards moved swiftly. Firm hands. No kindness.

Valentina resisted, of course—dramatic to the end. “This isn’t over!” she shouted, heels scraping against the marble. “You’ll fall just like the rest of them!”

Gianna didn’t speak again. But her eyes burned into mine, a promise of war.

And still, I didn’t blink.

Once the doors slammed behind them, the room didn’t exhale. It erupted.

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Relief rippling like thunder.

Luca leaned closer, brushing a hand down the back of my chair as he slid into his seat. “You do know how to make a scene,” he murmured.

I arched my brow. “You prefer subtle?”

He smirked. “I prefer to be effective.”

I raised my glass and said it clearly, for everyone who’d been holding their breath:

“To power. May it find the deserving—”

“—and destroy the desperate,” Luca finished beside me.