There’s nothing sweeter than watching someone walk into a room they thought they owned—and realize it was never theirs.

The Morellis arrived like royalty returning from exile, as if Velmorra still bowed at their feet.

Expensive shoes clicked against Corvatti marble. Tailored suits fit too tight over pride. Their eyes—calculating, cold, and falsely confident—swept the hall like they were doing us a favor by showing up.

They didn’t walk in. They paraded.

Gianna’s chin was high, her heels sharper than her tongue. Alessia lingered at the back, wearing arrogance like perfume. And Dante? He led them, of course. Because he always had to be first through the door—even if he had no idea whose house he was walking into.

His suit was dark navy. Sleek. Precise. The kind of suit a man wears when he needs to pretend he hasn’t lost everything.

And Valentina—she chose white. Of all colors, she picked the one reserved for virgins and victors. Her dress flowed around her legs. She clutched Dante’s arm, not tight—but like she owned it. Like she thought standing beside him made her untouchable.

I almost laughed.

They came expecting tradition. Protocol. To receive Matteo’s blessing for their match like it was owed to them.

But power doesn’t bow to protocol.

It sits on thrones, and they didn’t expect to find me seated on one.

I sat at Matteo’s right hand. My back is straight. My shoulders still. A simple black dress hugged my frame, pearls wrapped around my throat.

The name they tried to bury me under was now the one etched in gold behind me: Corvatti.

Dante saw me first.

His stride faltered mid-step. His jaw stiffened. The smile he wore cracked, visibly.

Valentina followed his gaze and froze, the color draining from her face.

“Aria?” she whispered.

Her voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then again—as if each second I remained real, the floor beneath her slipped farther away.

I rose slowly. Deliberately.

“Welcome,” I said. “To the house that owns the woman you discarded.”

Valentina staggered back a step. Not from the volume—but from the truth.

Dante didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

Gianna stepped forward then, trying to salvage the moment with a brittle smile.

“We weren’t told… you would be—”

“Alive?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Present? Powerful?”

She flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.

Alessia made a sound behind her. Something between a scoff and a curse.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“No,” I replied. “I’ve just stopped trying to fit into your frame.”

Matteo stood beside me then. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His silence alone pulled the room into shape.

“This,” he said, stepping forward, “is my daughter.”

He paused, eyes sweeping over each of them—slow, unforgiving.

“My heir. Aria Corvatti.”