The rumor beat the sun. I knew the Morelli women would retaliate after their humiliation.

It crept in through the kitchen vents, slid down servant hallways, and spilled like oil across the estate’s marble floors. By the time I dressed, it was already waiting for me in whispers.

“She forged it,” a guard muttered behind me, not realizing I’d paused in the corridor. “Corvatti blood, my ass. I heard she’s no more heir than the gardener’s wife.”

I’d already heard it from three different places—one from a courier who claimed he saw the post himself, tucked behind a paywall on some private forum run by bored men with too much time and not enough access.

The accusation was thin.

But the speed?

That was real.

By the time I reached the war room, the staff’s smiles were tighter. A few allies had sent “gentle inquiries.” The kind that asked nothing outright but carried suspicion in every word.

Valentina wanted a crack in the armor. She wanted me to flinch.

So I gave her something else.

I walked past the morning briefings, through the east wing, and into Matteo’s private lab.

“Pull the file,” I said to the technician, already donning gloves. “The Corvatti DNA report. Full chain of custody. Date stamped. Signatures included.”

The man blinked. “You want us to resend it to Don Matteo’s office?”

I shook my head. “No. Send it to the press.”

His eyes widened. “Publicly?”

“Now,” I said. “Before lunch.”

He didn’t ask again.

I returned to my suite, removed my earrings, and changed into navy. Understated. Confident. Unbothered.

I didn’t call Luca. I didn’t alert the staff. I didn’t even speak a word.

By noon, the headlines were already blooming like fire across every screen in Velmorra.

“CORVATTI BLOODLINE CONFIRMED—OFFICIAL TEST FROM DON MATTEO’S LAB ENDS RUMORS.”

“NOT A COSTUME: ARIA CORVATTI PROVES HER LINEAGE WITH PUBLIC REPORT.”

Matteo saw the article first. He laughed so hard, he spilled red wine on a stack of trade reports.

“She thought you wouldn’t fight back,” he said, wiping the mess with a silk napkin. “She thinks all women who smile are soft.”

I leaned against the edge of the desk. “She’s confusing silence with weakness,” I replied. “A mistake people like her only make once.”

He raised his glass toward me without another word.

But Valentina wasn’t done. Her second attempt was messier. That afternoon, my fencing coach arrived for our usual session. But his hands shook. His eyes didn’t meet mine. I waited. Something was wrong.

Thank God my interrogation lessons came in handy.

Eventually, after so many questions and threats he cracked. Said she offered him fifty thousand to ‘accidentally’ injure me during drills. Said she even wrote out the move she wanted him to fake.

I simply walked to my room, selected a slim white box, wrapped it in black ribbon, and handed it to one of the staff. Inside were crutches. Expensive. Heavy. The kind used after surgeries.

I told them, “Deliver it to Valentina. No note.”

Luca appeared by sunset. He stood near the stone arch outside the garden, arms folded.

“She’s getting sloppy,” he said, eyes scanning the courtyard. “That means she’s desperate.”

I stepped beside him and folded my hands behind my back. “Desperate people,” I said, “are the most fun.”

Valentina didn’t care about the truth. She cared about noise. She wanted chaos, not clarity. That’s why she started with the bloodline. Not because she thought it was true, but because she hoped others would. She bet on whispers. I bet on facts.

That evening, one of my staff handed me a tablet with a media link: Valentina hosting a brunch with former Morelli allies—smiling, charming, and poisoning minds with her new campaign. She wore pale yellow. Always innocent. Always pretending not to be the storm.

I leaned back and said coldly, “Let the snake slither. I’m already warming the fire.”