The rain hadn't stopped since Elena returned from Lake Como.
It clung to the glass like a warning, each drop sliding down the windows of the estate as if the house itself were sweating beneath the weight of what was coming.
Four days to the wedding.
And the world around her was unraveling with a kind of patience that felt more like calculation than chaos.
Lucian watched her from across the dining room table, fingers wrapped around a cup of untouched espresso.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"That usually means I should worry."
She gave him a look—half smile, half shadow. "Maybe you should."
--
The night with Nadya hadn't broken her.
It had solidified something.
Elena hadn't gone there to win.
She'd gone to look the threat in the eye and come back with a mirror.
Nadya had tried to belittle her, corner her with legacy, with venom wrapped in history—but Elena had seen something else behind her aunt's eyes.
Not dominance.
Desperation.
Now, as she sat in the room Rosa had filled with flowers meant for celebration, she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror and didn't see a bride.
She saw a survivor.
Draped in silk. But steel beneath.
--
Later that afternoon, the power went out in the north wing.
Just long enough for the perimeter cameras to reset.
Lucian's voice was steel when he called his men together.
"I want every hallway covered. No one enters this house who hasn't been seen twice."
When Elena entered the study mid-briefing, every pair of eyes turned toward her like she'd walked through fire.
Lucian didn't dismiss them.
He simply crossed the room and reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
"I'm not leaving this house until the wedding," she said. "But if she wants to strike, she'll try before then."
"You think Nadya would risk a direct move here?"
"She already has," Elena said. "With Sofia. With the card. With the surveillance."
"She's softening us."
"No," Elena whispered. "She's softening me. So when she kills me, she can say I cracked first."
Lucian's gaze hardened.
"Then she's miscalculated."
--
That night, Rosa brought a package to Elena's room. Unmarked. No note.
Inside: a dress.
Red.
Long sleeves, open back. Cut from fabric that shimmered like blood in candlelight.
Rosa's mouth tightened.
"It's not from me."
"Then it's from her."
Rosa hesitated. "You can't wear that."
"I have to."
"It's a message."
"Yes," Elena said quietly, fingers brushing the fabric. "And I want her to see me wear it anyway."
--
The next morning, Lucian sent Velasquez and Matteo to recon every estate route. Emergency exits. Tunnels. Guard rotations.
While they worked, Elena wrote a letter.
Not to Nadya.
To herself.
A confession. A memory. A truth no one else could carry.
She folded it. Sealed it in a book. Slid it into the lining of her wedding gown bag.
Not because she feared she wouldn't survive.
But because if she didn't—someone would know she went in on her own terms.
--
Three nights before the wedding, the first shot was fired.
Not at her.
At Matteo.
A sniper's round. Silenced, clean.
He survived—but barely.
Rosa's scream echoed through the halls as Lucian hauled Elena to the floor, covering her body with his.
Seconds later, alarms blared.
Red lights. Steel shutters. Locked corridors.
The estate became a fortress.
Lucian didn't speak as his men spread out.
Didn't explain.
He didn't need to.
This wasn't intimidation anymore.
It was war.
--
They moved her that night.
Lucian's private suite.
Only one way in. No balcony. Bulletproof glass.
It felt less like protection.
More like a last stand.
"I'm not afraid," Elena said as Lucian checked the reinforced locks for the third time.
"You should be."
"I've been afraid. Since the day I signed your contract."
Lucian turned. "You regret it?"
"I regret not understanding sooner what it meant to carry a name people want to kill for."
"You were never just a name."
"No," she said. "But now I know I'm not just yours, either."
There was silence.
Then Lucian stepped closer, his voice low.
"You're not mine because of a contract. You're mine because I've never known another woman who could look at death and still kiss me like she was choosing it."
Her breath hitched.
But she didn't break.
"I kissed you like I was choosing life."
--
That night, she didn't sleep.
Neither did he.
They lay beside each other, breathing in the same storm they'd been circling for weeks.
And in the dark, she whispered: "If I don't make it—"
"You will."
"But if I don't—don't let her win."
Lucian's voice cracked. "She won't. Because you already did."
--
The next morning, news reached them.
Semyon was dead.
Poisoned.
An inside job.
Nadya had moved.
Eliminated her last rival.
Now, only one woman wore the Volkov name without question.
And she wanted Elena gone before Elena could prove the name didn't belong to Nadya anymore.