Aria’s POV

The headlines hit like hammers. Rumors of fraud exploded across morning broadcasts and gossip sites. “Corvatti Heiress or Corporate Con?” one news anchor asked with a smirk too polished to be accidental. Another segment rolled clips of me at galas while narrating how I’d ‘seduced her way into the throne.’ It didn’t matter that none of it was true. In Velmorra, drama outshouts fact every time.

Matteo read the first article standing up. By the third, he threw the file across the war room.

“It’s all fabricated,” he growled. The papers hit the floor like ash. I picked one up. Scanned the phrasing.

“But strategically timed,” I added, sliding the report back onto the desk. Every quote had been planted. Every source anonymous.

Matteo paced while Luca stood by the monitors, checking timestamps, data pulls, cross-referencing media leaks.

We traced it fast. A corrupted file. An access point inside our own system. The digital trail didn’t go cold—it stopped deliberately. “Someone close to us is working with them,” Luca said.

Alessia added fuel within the hour. She posted a story of herself sipping champagne on a yacht with the caption: “Fake royalty sinks faster.” Another post followed: “Some women wash off easier than others.” No names. But everyone understood. That was her style: cowardice disguised as commentary.

Gianna released a statement. One sentence: “I have no involvement with the current scandals.”

Valentina, of course, said nothing at all. She simply smiled. Every photo showed her in red silk and confidence. The kind of woman who holds the match but never lights it in public.

I didn’t wait for permission. I went to the media myself. Sat in front of a live camera, clean suit, hair sharp, voice sharper.

“Let them try to rewrite my story,” I said. “I’ll just rewrite the ending.”

The backlash was instant. Not against me. Against them. Viewers shifted. Allies stepped in. One major family head publicly corrected a journalist on-air, calling me ‘formidable, not fraudulent.’ Quiet backers confirmed donations. A few even doubled them.

Matteo wasn’t pleased. Winning wasn’t enough.

“I don’t tolerate moles,” he snapped over dinner. The glass in his hand trembled, but not from fear. From fury. “I want names. I want trails. And I want blood if necessary.”

Luca leaned against the doorway and offered his version of a solution. “Let me flush them out.” He meant it. He would have.

But I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Let them think they’re winning.”

I sat in the library until morning, pen in hand, but I wasn’t writing. I was remembering. Every shift in loyalty I’d ignored. Every favor was repaid too fast. Every ‘yes’ that came without hesitation.

Just before breakfast, Luca returned with a folder. “We’ve isolated two suspects,” he said. “Both had recent access to the corrupted files.” I scanned the names. One was expected. The other made my breath pause.

A man who’d served my father’s estate for years. Our driver. The one who picked me up.

But before I could dig deeper, the call came in. From a river cleanup crew. Body recovered. Male. No ID. One of our house managers. Missing for two days. Found face-down, lungs full of riverwater. Drowned. Not an accident. Not in Velmorra.

Later that afternoon, one of the guards delivered a sealed evidence bag. I took it without asking.

Inside was a small black flash drive. Pulled from the drowned man’s coat pocket.