The morning after their shared night, Elena didn't wake to sunlight or silence.
She woke to the sound of raised voices down the hall.
She pulled Lucian's shirt around her bare frame and stepped into the corridor just as Rosa passed, brisk and tight-lipped.
"What's going on?"
Rosa hesitated, clearly torn. Then, in a low voice: "Sofia's gone."
Elena's breath caught. "What do you mean, gone?"
"Disappeared. Her bed's unslept. Security footage shows her walking out the back gate before sunrise."
"She wouldn't just leave."
Rosa looked pained. "I don't think she had a choice."
--
The tension in the house shifted again—like something in the walls had cracked and couldn't be sealed.
Lucian was already in the security room when Elena arrived. Screens lit the darkness—live feeds, heat sensors, perimeter alerts.
Sofia's exit replayed on a loop.
She was alone. Hoodie drawn tight. No weapon. No bag.
No hesitation.
"She doesn't look forced," Elena murmured.
Lucian's jaw flexed. "She wasn't. Not physically."
"But?"
"She had a brother," he said. "Lived two towns over. He went missing yesterday. No ransom note. No communication."
"She was coerced."
Lucian nodded once.
"And she didn't come to me," Elena whispered. "She didn't trust me enough."
Lucian turned from the screens. "She didn't want you involved. That's different."
"Is it?"
His silence answered for him.
--
That afternoon, Lucian's contacts traced Sofia's last known location to a small train depot near the outskirts of the city. Surveillance caught her boarding a nondescript black SUV with diplomatic plates.
Nadya's calling card.
"She's drawing lines," Lucian said. "No more subtlety. No more shadows."
"She wants to remind me what happens when I feel safe," Elena said bitterly.
Lucian didn't disagree.
"She's not after your body, Elena. She's after your sense of self. If she can shatter who you think you are, she never has to fire a bullet."
"Then let's hit back first."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "You have something in mind?"
Elena straightened. "She wants me confused. Fragile. Let's give her the opposite."
"How?"
"Invite her to the wedding."
--
The room went dead still.
Lucian blinked once. "You want me to invite your would-be assassin to our wedding?"
"She'll come," Elena said. "Not to kill me. Not yet. She'll want to watch. See how I move. Who surrounds me. Who claims me."
Lucian studied her for a long moment.
And then, surprisingly, nodded.
"She won't expect it."
"She'll think I'm stupid."
"But she'll come anyway."
Elena met his gaze. "And I want her to see everything I've survived. Every piece of me she didn't break."
--
They announced the formal wedding date that evening.
Two weeks.
A quiet civil ceremony, followed by a private reception in the gardens of the Moretti estate.
Just enough time for allies to be vetted and enemies to RSVP.
Lucian had someone hand-deliver Nadya's invitation via his most trusted courier.
It was received.
No answer came.
But two days later, a velvet box arrived at the estate.
Elena opened it herself.
Inside was a single earring—diamond, vintage, unmistakably antique.
Rosa gasped when she saw it.
"This belonged to your mother."
Elena stared down at the jewel, pulse stuttering.
"I remember this," she whispered. "She used to wear them on her rare nights out. She told me they were from a time she wanted to forget."
Lucian stepped beside her. "Nadya's message is clear. She's not just watching. She's reclaiming."
--
The days blurred.
Elena began to train.
Not in gowns or political charm.
But in survival.
Lucian brought in someone she didn't recognize—a tall, scarred man named Matteo, who said little but moved like someone who'd once lived with a price on his head.
"She'll come close eventually," Lucian told her. "When she thinks your guard is down. When she thinks you've softened."
"I won't soften," Elena said.
But even as she said it, she felt the echo of Lucian's hands on her skin, the taste of safety in his arms, and wondered how much of herself was already no longer hers.
--
It happened five days before the wedding.
The doorbell rang.
Not a knock. Not an alarm.
Just a quiet chime.
Rosa answered it, as always.
And then screamed.
Elena came running barefoot into the foyer just as Rosa dropped to her knees.
On the marble floor lay a bouquet of black orchids, wrapped in white silk ribbon.
Tucked between the stems was a small, blood-smeared card.
"I had her eyes. But not her name.
Which one of us was born the heir?"
Lucian arrived seconds later.
He read the card in silence.
Then turned to Elena.
"She's not warning us anymore."
--
That night, Elena didn't sleep.
She sat on the floor of her room, robe clutched around her, the card laid out before her like a riddle too sharp to touch.
Sofia was alive—at least for now.
But she'd been used.
Her disappearance had been a test.
A performance.
And Elena had passed it—too well.
The next move wouldn't be symbolic.
It would be final.
Lucian knocked once before entering.
"You need to see this," he said, his voice tight.
He handed her a single-page report. Dr. Velasquez's handwriting.
Nadya was born under a different name. Changed identities three times. Last known surname before re-emerging as Volkov: Vetrova.
"Vetrova…" Elena whispered. "I've heard that before."
"She used it for shell companies. Weapons trades. Laundering. It was her alias when she tried to seize the Budapest corridor."
Elena's stomach turned. "The train."
Lucian nodded grimly. "She's the one who gave the order."
Elena stood slowly.
"I want to confront her."
Lucian's gaze sharpened. "You already are."