ELENA

The days after walking out of his penthouse feel unreal — like living underwater.

I go to work. I smile. I speak in legal jargon and draft contracts and pretend that I’m not bleeding internally.

Everyone seems convinced by the performance except one person — Matteo.

“You’ve been quiet for days,” my brother says over breakfast, eyes dark and sharp. “And when you’re quiet, things are wrong.”

“I’m just tired—”

He snorts. “You’re a Moretti. We don’t get tired. We get even.”

The words hit differently now.

I push my plate away. “I’m done with revenge. I just want peace.”

He studies me, jaw ticking. “This has something to do with Volkov.”

I freeze. He sees it. It’s too late.

Matteo grips the edge of the table like he’s holding himself back from war.

“If he made you cry again, Elena, I swear—”

“Please.” My voice cracks. “Don’t start a fight I can’t survive.”

Matteo storms out of the room before I can stop him.

And that’s the moment I realize something terrible:

Losing Luca didn’t protect me.

It just left me alone when someone else was already hunting.

(THE FIRST WARNING)

At 2:14 pm, my phone vibrates during a meeting.

Unknown number:

Pretty girl. Pretty fall.

I delete it. Someone is messing around. A troll. A hater. A prank.

At 4:03 pm:

I like that necklace.

Shame to ruin it.

My hand flies to the gold chain around my neck — the one Luca gave me five years ago, before the first heartbreak.

Cold. Shaking. I turn off my phone.

At 6:18 pm, my office assistant knocks softly.

“Someone dropped this off for you.”

A single long-stemmed red rose.

A card attached.