The air felt cold the moment we stepped into the living room of his penthouse. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, framing the New York city skyline, with Central Park stretching out below in a sweep of dark and green shadowed light. It was close to Christmas, so patches of the city were dusted with snow, the white catching faintly against the darkness.
I looked away, soon as I could feel my chest tightening at the sight of it.
"So what did you want to talk about?" I asked, when he handed my hospital bag to the housekeeper waiting by the private elevator we just stepped out of.
"Which guest room, sir?" she asked.
"The one closest to mine," he replied curtly.
She gave a brief nod and hurried off with my bag, leaving us alone with the butler.
Dario stepped behind me, helping me slip out of my dark grey coat before passing it to the butler. Then he shrugged out of his own black one a moment later. "Coffee, please, James. My office." He turned to me. "Tea for Isolda. Chamomile. Or anything with caffeine, whatever will help ease her migraine.
James nodded and left.
Only then did Dario place his hand at the small of my back. The touch was measured, proper. And yet, I felt anything but at ease.
He led me down the hallway, past the living room that still carried the old-world charm of 1920s New York. Dark, reddish wooden panels lined the walls, their sheen catching the light of gold chandeliers overhead. A deep green Turkish carpet stretched beneath our feet, thick enough to muffle our steps.
There were no photographs anywhere. No flowers. No traces of a life lived. It felt less like a home, and more like a place preserved in time, built by someone else.
At the corner of the hallway, he stopped before a dark wooden door. He turned a key, the lock clicking open and ushered me inside.
His office was expansive. A grand mahogany desk dominated one side of the room, positioned before the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the New York skyline. On the other side, sat a set of leather sofas, immaculate and untouched.
I ran my hand over the sofa cushions.
The softness of Italian leather familiar beneath my fingers, before I settled on the seat facing the fireplace, my back deliberately turned to the snow outside. I wasn't ready to think about what had happened. Not yet. Snow had a way of dragging me back there, to that cliff, to the sound of the gunshot.
Fuck. I didn't even know how long I had been unconscious.
Dario moved behind his desk, entering a number sequence into a safe concealed beneath it. The soft beep that followed sounded far too loud in the stillness of the room. Then he crossed back to me, setting a small black ring box on the coffee table between us.
James, his butler, walked in just then. He placed our drinks carefully in front of us before bowing and leaving without a word.
Somehow, it reminded me of Olga. I couldn't help it. My chest tightened with an ache I hadn't expected. Grief brushing up against guilt until I had to look away, pressing my fingers into my palm to steady myself.
My gaze then lingered on the box. Unopened. Waiting.
"Your grandfather wants the wedding to be on New Year's Day," he said, settling onto the sofa beside me, just a good distance away. His elbows rested on his knees. "The first of January."
"So what did you say?" I asked, lifting the cup of black tea and taking a careful sip, more to steady my nerves than for the taste. For all I knew, he could have laced it with poison. At this point, though, I wasn't sure if I would even care.
I couldn't even myself to reach for the ring box. I didn't want to.
He shrugged. "That was a stupid question."
I swallowed back the urge to roll my eyes by taking another sip.
"Well?" he asked, gesturing to the ring box between us. "Aren't you going to look inside?"
I set the cup down, the clink against the mahogany louder than I intended. "I'm sure it's beautiful," I said, my voice edged with something sharp. "My grandfather must've chosen it. Just like everything else."
His dark eyes narrowed before he leaned back. "He gave me your grandmother's ring."
My breath caught. For a split second, the room tilted but I forced the reaction down before it could surface. I reached for the ring box anyway, my fingers curling around it despite the faint tremor in my hand.
My father had stolen that right before he ran. He had proposed to my mother with it, fully aware of what it meant to my grandfather. An act of defiance as much as devotion.
When they were forced to return, my grandfather had made him give it back. There had been shouting. Screaming. That was the night before the explosion that killed my parents.
So for him to hand it over so easily. Willingly. To Dario—
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. I already knew what it looked like. I had seen it on my mother's finger until the night before she died.
"He also told me about your missing memories," Dario said, too casually, lifting his coffee as if we were discussing the weather. "What truly transpired. Why he sent you on this mission." He took a slow sip. "I accepted you regardless."
Something in my chest locked tight. He was dangling the truth, something I was dying to uncover, right in front of me.
"We had an agreement," I said, forcing the words out evenly, even as my pulse began to hammer. If Dario knew everything, then my grandfather did too. Which meant they knew about him. About the marriage. About who Alexandre was to me. Is.
Dario didn't even hesitate.
"He's dead," he announced, as if he was stating a settled fact. His lips curved, faintly satisfied. "You killed him. It took our men days to retrieve the body from beneath the cliff. But when they did and confirmed it was him, your grandfather couldn't have been more proud."
The room felt suddenly smaller. The crackle of the fire too loud.
Dead. I've killed him. But somehow, it didn't feel right. He can't be dead. I refused to believe that.
I stared at Dario, searching his face for something, but what unsettled me was how easily the words had come to him. How rehearsed they sounded. Like a conclusion he had accepted long before I had.
"Good," I said, the word sharp enough to bite, even as something twisted painfully in my gut. "If there's anything else you'd like to say, now would be the time. I'd like to rest before dinner."
"You needn't worry about the wedding," Dario revealed. "Everything has been arranged by my people. All you have to do is just...show up. That should be easy enough."
I nodded, then stood, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
"I still meant what I said, all those weeks ago," he added, as if it were an afterthought. "I want this to be a real partnership."
I halted my steps, then turned to find him sitting there, staring at the fire, unmoving. Nonchalant. My jaw tightened.
"I know," I said, the words clipped, controlled.
"Good."
The world settled between us, heavy with implication. It was like he had already reached a conclusion without me. Even when I was the heiress. This empire was supposed to be mine. And yet, this man spoke to me as if he was the one who had the power over me.
Still, I had grown up in this world long enough to know when to pick my battles.
"Fine," I said evenly. "If you'll excuse me."
I turned and leave the room without looking back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing what that single word had stirred in me.
Because the last thing I remembered on that cliff as Alexandre's arms, closing in around me as I fell. Those dark green eyes fixed on mine. And the way he held me tight, as if letting go was not an option. Like I had belonged to him.
He had called me 'Lila'.
I held onto it as I closed the door to Dario's office. Held onto the tightening feeling in my chest, heavy and aching. None of this was right. This wasn't the place I was supposed to be.
But I swallowed it all down. For now.
I would not break here. Not until I was alone.