CHAPTER 5

The storm had swallowed the coastline. Rain hammered the sand in relentless sheets, the wind tearing at tents, floodlights, and the men struggling against the elements. Dominic Valtieri stood unmoving among them—drenched, unblinking, carved from stone.

His search teams—dozens of them—spread across the jagged shoreline, combing the rocks, dragging the waters, diving despite the violent current. Every order he gave was carried out instantly. No hesitation. No excuses.

Find her.

Find Althea.

The command echoed louder than the thunder.

Hours passed, and Dominic never once left his spot on the ridge overlooking the raging sea. His suit was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, but he didn’t flinch. His eyes, sharp and burning, tracked every light, every movement, every diver that surfaced.

He would not leave until he had her.

He needed to know.

The storm worsened as night fell. Waves smashed against the rocks like roaring beasts. Yet Dominic remained, his expression a terrifying shell of control—rage simmering just under the surface, grief coiled tight in his muscles, denial flickering in his eyes.

“Sir!”

A man ran toward him, panting, mud splashing around his boots. “We found something.”

Dominic’s world narrowed.

In the beam of a flashlight, a small object glimmered—delicate, familiar.

Althea’s bracelet.

The one she always wore. The one he had clasped onto her wrist himself.

His fingers closed around it slowly, reverently. The metal was cold against his skin—too cold. Something in his chest caved in, sharp and wounding.

But there was no body.

Only silence. Rage. And the relentless sea mocking him.

“Continue the search,” he said, though his voice was hollow. “Expand the perimeter. No one rests until I say so.”

“Sir—it’s nearly impossible in this storm—”

Dominic turned his head slightly. Just slightly.

The man went quiet instantly.

“Yes, sir.”

When Dominic finally left the coastline, the storm had already claimed the night. But no part of him felt gone or exhausted. Only carved out—hollow but burning.

A few hours after arriving back at the Valtieri estate, Dominic closed the door behind him with a soft but final click. He looked across the room where his sister stood.

The subtle sound made Isabelle stiffen. She stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself, pretending to be composed—but Dominic saw right through her.

“Why did you do it?” His voice was low, calm, composed… but beneath that calm simmered something lethal. “Why did you help Althea escape?”

He didn’t raised his voice and kept his distance.

Isabelle’s breath hitched. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, calming herself. A nervous, unconscious gesture.

Dominic noticed, his hands balling into fists. 

“She begged me, Dom,” Isabelle whispered. “She said she needed space… she looked terrified. I thought if she got a moment to breathe, she’d come back. I didn’t know it would lead to this.”

“You didn’t know,” Dominic echoed, stepping closer, his expression unreadable. “But you acted anyway. You made a choice. A choice that wasn’t yours to make.”

His words were blade-sharp—quiet, but fatal.

Isabelle’s eyes welled. “I wasn’t trying to betray you. I was trying to help her.”

“Help?” Dominic’s laugh was humorless. He approached his sister and stood in front of her just a few feet away. “You helped my wife walk out when she was at her weakest. You helped her run.” He leaned in, his breath cold against her skin. “You helped her die.”

Isabelle paled. “Dom… what—what do you mean?”

Dominic’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed steady. Too steady. “Althea was pregnant.”

The world seemed to tilt under Isabelle’s feet. “No… she didn’t tell me—she didn’t tell anyone—”

“She didn’t tell me either,” he said, and for a fleeting second, pain flashed across his eyes. Then it hardened into ice. “I learned only after she was already gone.”

A strangled breath escaped Isabelle.

“She ran. She fell.” Dominic’s tone was flat, almost detached—like he’d practiced saying it without feeling. “She died… with our child still inside her.”

Isabelle broke, sobbing into her hands. She sank to the floor.

Dominic watched her for a moment—not with sympathy, but with a cold, resolved distance.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. He placed his hands in his pockets. “If that were my intent, Isabelle, this conversation would be unnecessary.”

Her sobs stilled slightly, just enough for her to hear the next words—the ones that would destroy her in another way.

“But there will be consequences.”

Isabelle looked up, eyes red. “Dom… please…”

“You will step down from every position you hold in the company,” he said coldly. “Effective immediately.”

Her breath caught. “What? Dominic—”

“You will remain a Valtieri by name only,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “No authority. No influence. No power. Nothing that allows you to make choices that affect this family ever again.”

“Dom, please—I was trying to protect her—”

“You were trying to defy me.” His voice dropped, quiet and lethal. “And you succeeded. You tore this family apart.”

Dominic turned toward the door, pausing only once.

“You didn’t push her,” he said without looking back. “But you opened the door. And you will live with that.”

He opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him with the same soft, final click.

This time, the sound shattered Isabelle completely.

The hallway swallowed the sound of the door closing behind him, but Dominic heard it anyway—echoing in his skull like a gunshot.

He didn’t slow his pace as he walked back to his and Althea's room in the west wing, each step measured, controlled. Control was the only thing he had left. Control was the only thing keeping him upright.

Isabelle’s sobs still rang in his ears.

He shut them out.

She deserved to cry.

She deserved worse.

Helping Althea escape. Opening the door. Handing her over to danger with good intentions and blind trust. Stupidity disguised as compassion.

She didn’t know Althea was pregnant. He hadn’t known either.

That thought stabbed him—sharp, unexpected.

If he had known… If she had told him… If he had looked closer…

He crushed the thought immediately. “If” was for the weak. “If” was for men who could afford the luxury of regret.

He couldn’t.

Althea was gone.

His child was gone.

Both because someone he trusted chose to intervene where she had no right.

Isabelle. His sister.

His own blood.

And yet, when he looked at her in that room, he had felt nothing. No warmth, no affection, no softness from shared childhood memories. Just a clean, clinical coldness.

He didn’t enjoy hurting her, but he didn’t regret it either.

She had to understand.

Loyalty was not optional.

Obedience was not negotiable.

And betrayal—even unintentional—was unforgivable.

He moved down the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect despite the heaviness inside him.

Stripping her of her titles had been easy.

Cutting her influence—easier still.

A Valtieri in name only. That was all she could be now. Family by blood, but no longer by trust.

He inhaled slowly, the air cold in his chest.

He wouldn’t break down.

Wouldn’t bend.

Wouldn’t shatter.

Not until everything was finished. Not until Althea was avenged. Not until the world that took her paid for every second of pain it caused.

He paused at the end of the hall, closing his eyes briefly.

“Pregnant.”

The word twisted something deep in him. Something he refused to let surface. Something raw, dangerous, close to rage—close to grief.

He opened his eyes.

He kept walking, letting the cold settle deeper into him.

It was better this way.

Easier to be ice than a man mourning ghosts.

Because ghosts demanded answers.

And Dominic Valtieri would make sure someone provided them.