Nobela ni Eliza Tedja

Elise didn’t sleep.The estate was quiet past midnight — the kind of silence that hums under walls and in between breath. She sat in her suite with the lights low, the fire down to embers, the ring still on her finger and the taste of too many glances clinging to her skin.She should have been tired.But power had a way of keeping the pulse sharp.And tonight, it burned.She moved to the vanity with slow intent. The mirror caught her in fragments — hair undone, mouth too still, collarbone lit in slices of shadow. Her reflection didn’t soften. It didn’t forgive.It waited.She rose.And the gown moved with her.Black silk — nearly sheer — slid down the planes of her body, brushing against bare skin like it didn’t care who watched. It caught the light in ghostly gleams, enough to trace the deep lines of her waist, the sweep of her thighs, the soft dip at the top of each breast.She hadn’t worn anything beneath it.Not because she meant to be seen.But because she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Camila had invited Matteo to the estate for a late-afternoon strategy session. Something to do with donor placement and the Foundation’s upcoming portfolio. Elise hadn’t been asked to join.She didn’t ask why.But when she passed the library and heard Matteo’s voice — low, deliberate — she didn’t stop.She just walked away.—By dusk, the library was supposed to be empty.It wasn’t.She stepped inside without hesitation.The room smelled of old leather and cedar polish. Low light pooled across the rug, softening the carved furniture into suggestion. A decanter glinted like a forgotten temptation.Matteo was still there.She felt him before she saw him — not as sound, but pressure. The air thickened. Space shifted.He stepped into view between the central shelves, holding a slim leather folder, unopened.“Interesting ring,” he said.“It wasn’t yours to comment on,” Elise replied.He moved forward. “That’s never stopped you from wearing things meant for someone else.”“Cassian offered i

Cassian handed her the note late in the afternoon, while she was reviewing the Cruz documentation at the drawing room table. He didn’t ask what she was reading. He didn’t interrupt.He just placed the folded card beside her elbow.“Seven o’clock,” he said. “Rooftop.”She looked at the envelope, then at him.“Is this an order?”“No,” he said. “An opportunity.”The card was cream stock. No seal. No flourish.Inside, in his handwriting:Wear something that doesn’t apologize. — C—By sunset, the Caro estate’s rooftop had been cleared of its usual furniture. In its place stood a low table with a bottle of scotch, two heavy crystal glasses, and an old wooden box. Cassian stood at the railing, facing the skyline, sleeves rolled, his jacket slung over the back of a chair.She stepped into the space without slowing.Her dress was black, deep, and glitter-laced. A slip of starlight against her skin. It caught every breath of movement, clung like heat, and shimmered like threat. It dipped low a

Elena Cruz didn’t exist on paper until Elise decided she did.The apartment came first — a walk-up above a closed florist on Via Danzico. Third floor. No elevator. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions and kept its lights dim even in daylight. She signed the lease in silence, using one of the old cover identities Gerardo Valez had drafted for her family’s “quiet accounts” back when she was still too obedient to know what they were for.This time, she knew.The walls were bare, the windows locked. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, like someone had wiped away something that shouldn’t have been left behind. There were no family portraits here. No ancestral oil paintings. Just blank walls. Clean, unfinished. The way she liked it.Elise set her single suitcase on the narrow table by the window. It held only what she needed: a gray coat, a burner phone, two folders, and a black fountain pen.Then she waited.Gerardo arrived at 9:03 a.m.He had aged better than most men in his bus

Cassian didn’t mention the scream.Not the next day.Not the day after.But Elise noticed other things.He was still in the house.Camila had arranged it — “for appearances,” she’d said. A show of harmony. Of unity.To Elise, it was surveillance dressed as strategy.But she used it anyway.—He stopped deferring to Camila during meetings. Cancelled an outing arranged by the family council — one Elise was meant to attend for optics. When the guests asked why, he simply said, “Priorities changed.”He didn’t name her.But she felt the weight of it anyway.Not as affection.As strategy.—The morning after, Camila received a private call from the Foundation’s board and left the estate without comment.Elise took the opening.She crossed to the west wing.Knocked once on the study door.Cassian opened it.No tie. No jacket. Just a pressed shirt and quiet wariness.“Elise.”“Are you cancelling the gala appearance because of me?”He hesitated.“Yes.”“Why?”He stepped aside. She entered with

Elise didn’t speak of the gallery incident.Not to Camila. Not in her journal. She cleaned the blade. Burned the envelope. Acted like it hadn’t touched her.But the quiet that followed settled wrong in her chest.Matteo had sent her into danger, then covered her with protection.Her body pretended it didn’t matter.Her sleep said otherwise.The dream wasn’t new.But it had waited—quiet, patient—for the right moment to return.—Elise ran through the trees.Dark ones. Wet with silence. Not chasing, not fleeing. Just moving. Fast. Her boots caught roots. Her breath scraped. She knew what came next.Gunfire.Not a sound.A sensation.Then nothing.Except—A single voice.Her name.Said not in hate.But regret.—She woke gasping.Sheets tangled. Skin damp. The air in her room felt thinner than it should. She sat up too fast, elbows locked, heart stuttering against bone.The lamp was still on.Soft amber glow.It was past midnight.She stood slowly, moved toward the window. Opened it just