Serena Vale had never been particularly skilled at lying.
Until now. Now, lies sat beneath her tongue like sugar—necessary and sharp, coating each word she spoke with the taste of something hidden. She’d become fluent in the art of silence. Of passing by guards without being noticed. Of slipping into restricted halls with quiet, calculated grace. She was no longer just Matteo De Luca’s captive bride. She was her father’s daughter. And her mother’s, too. Even if she didn’t want to be. --- The investigation began two nights after Matteo gave her the truth. He’d gone to Naples to meet with southern allies. She was left behind, for her safety. But Serena had no interest in safety. She wanted answers. She waited until the guards shifted on rotation. Mara had retired early, and the eastern wing of the estate—where all physical archives and security tapes were stored—was left quiet, humming beneath soft amber lights. She picked the lock with a hairpin. She became skilled at it when she was a rebellious teenager. The door opened with a slight creak. Inside laid dozens of file cabinets. A secured terminal. And shelves of dusty black binders labeled with gold tags—each a record of a year in the De Luca archives. She didn’t have time to go through them all. So she searched by name. Isadora Vale. Nothing in the digital logs. But under V, she found something else. "Vale, I." – Status: UNKNOWN. Last Known Location: Geneva. Alias: Isabella Marelli. Active Year: 2013." Geneva. Serena’s breath caught. That wasn’t just a location. It was a declaration. Her mother hadn’t just disappeared—she’d reinvented herself. The discovery hit Serena like a brick. And she was still out there. --- The file contained an address. An art gallery that was Under a false name. Serena took a photo of the page, replaced everything carefully, and left as silently as she had entered. But unknown to her someone had been watching all her moves. From the shadows beyond the corridor. And the next morning, a message arrived. “We need to talk.” No name. Just a location. The Council Hall. And waiting inside: Arturo Bianchi. --- The guards did not stop her. They simply opened the chamber doors. Serena stepped in, spine straight, face blank. Arturo was alone, seated in Matteo’s usual chair. The others were gone. A private audience. Perfectly staged. “I thought you might come,” he said, sipping dark espresso. “Blood recognizes blood, doesn’t it?” Serena’s jaw clenched. “You sent me the photograph of my mother.” He smiled. “So sharp. Just like Isadora. She could read a room with one glance and burn it down with one whisper.” Serena stepped closer, voice cold. “Why now? Why show me what she did?” “Because truth is the most effective weapon,” he replied, setting the cup down. “And because your husband is beginning to forget who the enemy is.” She didn’t flinch. “You mean you.” “I mean you,” Arturo said calmly. “You think you’re safe here. That this marriage gives you leverage. But all you’ve done is expose the last surviving thread of a legacy that should’ve died with your father.” “Then why haven’t you killed me?” Arturo stood. He was taller than she remembered. Grayer at the temples, but his eyes—those wolf-like, intelligent eyes—were as cruel as ever. “Because there’s something far more interesting than killing you.” She didn’t move. “Like what?” “Watching you become her.” Silence filled the room. Serena’s fingers curled into fists. “I am nothing like my mother.” “No?” He walked slowly toward her. “She betrayed her husband. She passed secrets. She seduced power. And in the end, she chose her own life over her child’s.” “You’re the reason she ran,” Serena hissed. “You corrupted her.” “I offered her freedom,” Arturo said smoothly. “And she took it. What does that say about the world she wanted to leave behind?” Serena stepped forward until they were just inches apart. “I don’t care what you think you offered her. She’s still my mother. And one day, I’ll find her. Look her in the eye. And ask her why I wasn’t worth staying for.” Arturo studied her with new interest. “You intend to track her down?” “I already have a lead.” He smiled. “Geneva?” Her stomach flipped. “How do you know—?” “I know everything,” he interrupted. “Including the fact that Matteo doesn’t know about your midnight research. Which means you’re already keeping secrets. From him. Like she did from your father.” Serena froze. Arturo leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Careful, little lioness. Your blood remembers more than you want it to.” --- She left the hall shaking. She was filled With rage. With shame. With a fear that sat heavy in her chest and weighed her down Because Arturo was right about one thing— She had already started hiding things from Matteo. And it wasn’t because she didn’t trust him. It was because a part of her didn’t trust herself. --- That night, she didn’t eat or sleep. Her mind raced with so many thoughts. She stared out the window with the file open in her lap. Geneva. Isabella Marelli. Art gallery. The woman in the photo—her mother—had chosen to vanish. But Serena? She would choose to confront and stand her ground. --- At dawn, Matteo returned. He came into her room before she could hide the file. She froze, hands clutching the papers, chest hammering. He stilled in the doorway, sharp eyes flicking to the photo of her mother, then to the notes scattered across the bed. “Geneva,” he said flatly. Serena stood. “Matteo—” “You went into the restricted archives?” “Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Without telling me?” “I had to.” “Why?” “Because it’s my mother,” she said, voice trembling. “And I deserve to look her in the eye and ask why she left.” “She’s not safe.” “I’m not asking for your permission,” she said, stepping closer. “I’m telling you I’m going to find her.” He stared at her for a long time. Then, quietly, “And if you do?” “Then I’ll decide for myself if I forgive her.” Silence stretched between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “Then I’ll come with you.” Serena blinked. “What?” “I won’t let you face her alone.” Her eyes burned. “I’m not doing this for closure,” she said. “I know.” “Then why come?” He reached out, gently brushing her hair from her face. “Because if you have to go back to the past,” he whispered, “I want to be there to pull you out if it tries to keep you.”
