Chapter 2: Empire Strikes Back

POV RACHELLE

The sunlight in the Veronesi tower was different from the sunlight at the Santoro estate. In Nikolai’s mansion, the light felt filtered, gray, as if the heavy velvet curtains were mourning a joy that never existed. But here, on the 42nd floor of the glass-and-steel monolith my father built, the sun was a blade. It reflected off the white marble floors and the chrome mannequins, blindingly bright.

I stood in the center of the atelier, a cup of black espresso in one hand and a charcoal pencil in the other. I hadn't slept. Not a wink.

But I didn’t feel tired. I felt electric.

"Rachelle, the swatches from the Como mill are here," my assistant, Sofia, whispered. She was twenty-four, ambitious, and currently looking at me like I was a ghost that had suddenly decided to start haunting the living.

I didn't blame her. For three years, I had been the silent director who sent notes via email, the woman who stayed in the background to avoid "embarrassing" my husband with my ambition. Nikolai liked his women to be ornaments, not architects.

"Let me see them," I said. My voice was raspy, but steady.

She laid out the silks. Emerald, deep navy, and a crimson so dark it looked like drying blood. I ran my fingers over the fabric. The texture was exquisite, but the weight was wrong.

"This won't hold the structure for the lapel of the 'Resurrection' coat," I said, tossing the crimson swatch back onto the table. "Tell them I want the double-faced wool blend. If they can’t deliver by Friday, tell them Veronesi is moving our contract to their rivals in Tuscany."

Sofia blinked, her pen hovering over her tablet. "But... that’s a ten-million-euro contract, Ma’am. The Santoro distribution line handles their shipping. If we cut them off—"

"The Santoro name doesn't carry weight in this office anymore, Sofia," I interrupted, looking her dead in the eye. "Not today. Not ever again."

The office door burst open before she could respond. My father, Matteo Veronesi, walked in. He was sixty, with silver hair and a suit that cost more than a mid-sized car. He looked at me, then at the half-dozen sketches pinned to the corkboard behind me.

"You really did it," he said, his voice a mixture of pride and genuine shock. "I got the call from Nikolai’s father an hour ago. He sounded like he was having a stroke."

"He should see a doctor, then," I replied, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "I’m busy, Papa. The Autumn show is in six weeks and I’ve wasted three years on a man who doesn't know the difference between silk and polyester."

Matteo walked over to the board, touching one of my sketches—a structured blazer with sharp, aggressive shoulders. "He’s calling it a tantrum. He thinks you’ll be back by the weekend. He told his board that you just need to 'cool off' after some domestic spat."

I felt a flash of heat in my chest—not of hurt, but of cold, calculated fury. "Let him think that. The longer he stays arrogant, the harder he’ll hit the ground when the three-month mark hits."

My phone, sitting on the cutting table, began to vibrate.

Nikolai.

The name on the screen looked like a stain. I didn't answer. I didn't even silence it. I just watched it dance across the wood until it went dark.

Ten seconds later, it started again. And again. On the fourth attempt, I picked it up and swiped 'Accept.'

"I'm working, Nikolai," I said, not bothering with a greeting.

"Where the hell are the keys to the safe in the study?" His voice was a jagged edge, vibrating with a frustration he clearly couldn't contain. I could hear the background noise of the mansion—the clinking of china, the muffled sound of Micah’s voice. "And why is your lawyer calling my office about a 'separation of assets' regarding the Milan penthouse? That was part of my wedding gift."

"Correction: it was a gift to us," I said, stepping away from my father to get some privacy. "And since I’m the one who actually uses it for work, I’m keeping it. The keys to the safe are exactly where they should be—with the locksmith. I had the codes changed this morning."

"Rachelle, enough of this theater!" he roared. I could picture him now: pacing the study, his face flushed, the veins in his neck bulging. "You made your point at dinner. You humiliated Micah. You embarrassed me in front of my parents. Now, pack your things and come back before this gets out to the press. I’m willing to overlook the 'divorce' nonsense if you apologize to Micah."

I let out a short, dry laugh. It was a sound of pure disbelief. "Apologize? To the woman who is carrying a child that isn't yours? You’re even more delusional than I thought, Nikolai."

"Don't you dare bring that up again," he hissed. "Micah is distraught. She’s been crying all night. She explained everything—Ambrose was there to help her with a surprise for me. Your jealousy is making you pathetic."

"Jealousy?" I leaned against the window, looking out at the city I was about to conquer. "Nikolai, you confuse jealousy with observation. I don't want you. Therefore, I cannot be jealous of what you do with your life. I’m simply informing you of the truth so you don't look like a fool when that baby is born with the Peregrini jawline."

"Rachelle—"

"I have a board meeting in ten minutes. If you want to talk about the safe or the penthouse, call my lawyer. If you want to talk about your feelings, call a therapist. Goodbye, Nikolai."

I hung up and turned the phone off completely. My heart was thumping, but not with fear. It was the adrenaline of the hunt.

"He’s not going to let go easily," my father warned, crossing his arms. "The Santoros need our prestige. Without the Veronesi link, their luxury distribution wing is just a shipping company with a fancy logo."

"Then they better start practicing their logistics," I said, picking up my charcoal pencil. "Because I’m not just divorcing him, Papa. I’m going to outshine him so brightly that he becomes a footnote in my biography."

The rest of the morning was a blur of high-stakes decisions. I met with the head of marketing, scrapped the old, "soft" campaign, and demanded something "dangerous." I wanted the Veronesi woman to look like she could kill a man with a glance and buy his company with a signature.

Around 2:00 PM, a delivery arrived at the office. Not flowers—Nikolai knew I hated the cliché. It was a box from a high-end jewelry boutique. Inside was a necklace I had mentioned liking a year ago. A peace offering.

I didn't even take it out of the box.

"Sofia!" I called out.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Take this to the reception. There’s a girl there, the one who works the morning shift. What’s her name? Elena?"

"Yes, Elena."

"Give this to her. Tell her it’s a bonus for being on time."

Sofia’s eyes went wide as she saw the sparkle of the diamonds. "But... this is a Santoro piece. It’s worth thirty thousand euros."

"Then she can sell it and pay off her student loans," I said, turning back to my sketches. "To me, it’s just lead weight."

By the time the sun began to set, painting the Milan skyline in shades of bruised purple and gold, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't known since I was twenty-six. I was tired, yes, but it was the good kind of tired—the kind that comes from building something real.

I walked out to my car, my security detail following at a respectful distance. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, a familiar silver sports car screeched to a halt at the curb.

The door opened, and Nikolai stepped out. He looked disheveled. His tie was loose, his hair was messy, and for the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of something that looked like desperation in his eyes.

"We aren't done," he said, stepping into my personal space. The scent of him—sandalwood and expensive tobacco—tried to trigger a memory of intimacy, but I felt nothing but a cold void.

"I think we are," I said, looking up at him. I didn't back away. "You have eighty-nine days left of being my husband, Nikolai. Use them to get your story straight. Because when the clock hits zero, I’m taking everything that actually matters."

"You think you’re so strong now because you're back in your father's house," he spat, his voice trembling. "But you’ll realize soon enough that the world isn't as kind as your sketches, Rachelle. You’ll come back."

"Don't hold your breath," I said, stepping into my car. "It’s bad for the complexion. And you’re going to need to look your best for the cameras when the scandal breaks."

As the car pulled away, I looked in the rearview mirror. Nikolai was standing alone on the sidewalk, a small, dark figure dwarfed by the towering empire of the woman he thought he could own.

The arrepentimiento hadn't started yet. Not truly. He was still in the "anger" phase.

But I knew the cycle. Soon would come the bargaining. Then the depression. And finally, the crushing realization that he had traded a diamond for a piece of glass.

I leaned back against the leather seat and closed my eyes. For the first time in three years, I wasn't dreaming of his love.

I was dreaming of the runway.