He Chose A Fake Heiress Over His True Queen

Six months later.

The Sicilian sun hit differently than the light in New York.

It was honest. Unforgiving. It didn't hide behind glass skyscrapers or filter through smog.

I sat in my studio, a converted loft perched high above the Palermo coast.

Bolts of silk, Kevlar, and leather were scattered across the drafting tables like a chaotic, beautiful battlefield.

My phone buzzed against the wood.

It was Ben.

Attachment: 3 images.

I opened them.

The first was a headline from the New York Times Society page, bold and mocking.

THE KING AND HIS QUEEN: JAX VETTI AND CHLOE DAVENPORT SET WEDDING DATE.

The second was a photo of them.

Jax looked powerful, his hand resting possessively on Chloe's waist.

Chloe looked smug, radiating a victor's glow, her baby bump now visible under a custom designer gown.

The caption read: "A union of power and passion. Vetti calls Davenport his 'true north'."

True north.

I laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that scraped against my throat.

I used to be his compass. Now, I was just ballast he had cut loose to stay afloat.

The third image was a financial report.

Ben: He's bleeding cash, Savvy. The wedding is costing millions. He's buying her loyalty with diamonds because he knows the alliance is shaky. He's liquidating assets from the commercial bakery sector to pay for her whims.

The bakery sector.

My father's legacy.

Jax was selling off the bricks and mortar of my father's hard work just to buy Chloe a tiara.

I walked to the full-length mirror.

The scar on my neck was no longer an angry red slash.

It was a work of art.

Gold ink traced the jagged line, weaving through the scar tissue like a river of molten metal. I had treated it with Kintsugi-the Japanese art of repairing the broken with gold.

It didn't look like an injury anymore.

It looked like lightning.

I turned away from the mirror and picked up my heavy tailoring shears.

I wasn't crying.

I hadn't cried since the fountain.

Tears were a luxury for people who had hope. I didn't have hope. I had a business plan.

"SAVVY."

That was the name of the brand.

High fashion.

But with a secret.

Every dress, every coat, every suit was reinforced.

Hidden pockets tailored specifically for switchblades.

Kevlar weaves seamlessly integrated into silk bodices.

Quick-release clasps for emergency escape.

I was designing armor for women who lived in a world of wolves.

And the Sicilian women loved it.

The wives of the local Dons, the daughters of the old families-they lined up for my fittings.

They saw the gold on my neck, and they understood.

I wasn't a victim. I was a survivor.

"Signorina?"

My assistant, a local girl named Giulia, poked her head in.

"Don Rossi is here. He wishes to see the new collection."

Mateo Rossi.

The head of the Sicilian Commission.

He was older than Jax, quieter. Dangerous in the way the ocean is dangerous-calm on the surface, but holding death in its depths.

He walked in, his suit impeccable.

He didn't look at my legs-which had healed, though they left me with a slight, permanent limp.

He looked at my eyes.

"The buzz is loud, Savvy," Mateo said, running a hand over a velvet jacket lined with slash-proof mesh. "New York is talking about the wedding. But Sicily... Sicily is talking about the dressmaker."

"Let them talk," I said, pinning a hem with practiced precision.

"Jax sent an envoy," Mateo said casually.

My hand froze.

"And?"

"I told him we haven't seen a girl named Savvy," Mateo smiled, a slight curl of his lip. "I told him we only know a woman named Gold."

He placed a hand on the table. Not touching me, but close enough to offer support.

"He threw you away, Savvy. He doesn't get to ask where you landed."

"He's using my father's money," I said, my voice cold. "To pay for her."

"Money comes and goes," Mateo said. "Respect is harder to earn. And right now, Jax Vetti is losing respect. A man who cannot protect his own household cannot rule a city."

He looked at the tablet on my desk, displaying the wedding announcement.

"He looks happy," Mateo observed.

"He looks like a man standing on a trapdoor," I corrected.

I picked up a silver lighter and the photo of Jax I had kept in my drawer. The one of us when we were teenagers.

I flicked the lighter.

The flame caught the edge of the photo.

I watched Jax's face curl and blacken.

I watched my own smiling, naive face turn to ash.

"Ben says the wedding is in two months," I said, dropping the burning photo into a metal bin.

"It will be the event of the decade," Mateo said.

"Yes," I agreed, watching the fire die out.

I turned back to my work.

"Because I'm going to make sure he can't afford the bill."