Aria didn't plan the rebellion.
It rose out of her like breath, quiet, unannounced, unstoppable.
After last night's blow-up, the mansion felt colder than usual, even with the marble floors still warm from the morning sun spilling across them. The air was thick with the residue of unsaid things, the electric tension of two people orbiting the same center of gravity but refusing to touch it.
And today, Aria decided she would not chase clarity.
She would not demand answers.
She would not fix the storm Dante Moretti created.
Silence would do the heavy lifting.
It always did.
It started at breakfast.
Dante entered the dining room like a disruption, tailored black suit, expression carved from steel, jaw tight enough to slice air. The kind of presence that made entire syndicates tremble.
But Aria didn't look up from her tea.
She didn't even breathe differently.
