Chapter Eight

Three Years Later

The cold bites against my skin as I step out of the private jet. The private terminal is quiet, less chaotic.

New York.

It seems like forever since I last saw the skylines of this city.

Three years since I was forced to leave in shame and disgrace. But now I'm back and I'm no longer the girl they mocked or ridiculed.

My phone rings and I pick it up to see it's the man who's been my anchor all these years.

“Damien,” I say when I answer the call.

“Have you arrived yet?”

“Yes I just got out of the plane.” I walk out of the terminal, searching the area for the car that's supposed to pick me up.

“Hurry home then. Isabella has been asking about you.” He said. I smile before hanging up the call.

A man in a black suit walks towards me and bows. “ Mrs Moretti, I'm here to take you home.”

I nod and follow him to the black limo. We get in and drive out of the airport. As we drive through the city I let my gaze linger outside. Not much has changed in three years.

Natalie's wedding is what brought me back to New York and now that I'm here, the city is going to feel my presence. I'm no longer the girl they shamed and cast away.

I've grown more than that.

In a matter of thirty minutes, we arrived at the mansion. The gates swing open as the limo glides into the long driveway. My chest tightens at the sight of the mansion, our home. Its towering walls rise like a fortress, daring anyone to challenge the man who owns it, daring anyone to question the woman who walks through its doors.

The car stops, and the driver hurries to open the door for me. I step out, the cold air rushing against my cheeks once more, but the warmth of familiarity soothes me. This is where I belong now.

The front doors open before I reach them, and Isabella runs out, her tiny feet pattering against the stone steps.

“Mama!” she calls, her voice bright with joy.

I bend down quickly, catching her as she throws herself into my arms. Her warmth, her laughter, her little hands gripping me tightly.

“I missed you, Bella,” I whisper against her hair, kissing her crown.

“You’re late,” she pouts.

“I know,” I say softly, brushing her cheek. “Mama had some work to finish. But I’m here now, and I’ll always come back to you.”

A shadow falls across us, and I glance up to see Damien standing at the doorway. His black suit fits him like a second skin, his sharp gaze lingering on me as though he’s been counting the minutes until I returned.

“You kept her waiting,” he says, but there’s no anger in his tone, just a quiet reprimand, wrapped in the authority only he can carry.

The meeting with the investors ran late. It won't happen again “ His eyes soften for a fleeting second before he turns, leading us inside.

The warmth of the mansion swallows us whole. Marble floors gleam under the golden chandelier light, and the air carries that familiar mix of leather, wood, and Damien himself. Isabella runs off toward the sitting room, humming happily.

She's more of a child now. She understands what it's like to make mistakes, to play and not bother about her next lesson m

“This wedding of your friend,” he says as we ascend the stairs, his tone deliberate, “it will be your first public appearance since you left New York. Are you prepared?”

I pause, my hand tightening on the polished railing. Memories flood back, the whispers, the stares, the humiliation of that night three years ago. But then I inhale deeply, straightening my back.

“Yes,” I answer firmly. “I won’t hide anymore. They’ll see me for who I’ve become.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods once in approval. “Good.”

When we reach our room, I step inside and close the door, my reflection catching in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back at me is no longer the naïve bride they tried to destroy.

No, this woman is Mrs. Damien Moretti.

And New York is about to remember my name. I turn to Damien.

“Can we keep our marriage a secret?”

He pauses, stares at me before resumes unbuttoning his shirt. “I'm guessing you don't want anyone to associate your success with me.”

“Yes. The press would see anything I accomplish as a result of your influence and I don't want that. I want when I strike they know it's me. Just me.”

Damien nods like he understands. Maybe he does. He's seen me grow all these years, he has always been by the sidelines supporting me when I needed it.

“Don't worry. I won't interfere with your revenge. But don't make the mistake of thinking I'll let anyone who fucks you over get away with it.”

His words linger in the air, sharp and unyielding, carrying that dangerous edge he never bothers to hide. My lips part, but I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I turn back to the mirror, letting my gaze travel over the length of my dress, the subtle strength in my stance, the fire in my eyes.

Revenge.

It’s a word I’ve held close to my chest all these years, feeding on it, letting it reshape me. They thought they had buried me under shame, but all they did was plant a seed. And now I’ve bloomed into something they’ll never be able to control.

Damien moves closer, his shirt hanging open, exposing the sculpted lines of his chest. He stops behind me, his reflection towering over mine, his presence wrapping around me like steel and fire.

“Whatever game you want to play out there, Leina,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, “play it. But remember this, your name may shake New York, but it’s my ring on your finger that shields you from the storm.”

I meet his gaze in the mirror, refusing to waver. “I don’t want a shield, Damien. I want them to burn when they see me. I want them to realize the girl they spat on came back as a woman they can’t destroy.”

For a moment, silence stretches between us, filled only by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the rapid beat of my heart. Then, slowly, he smirks, that dangerous, knowing smirk that both infuriates me and makes my knees weaken.

“Then burn them, Mrs. Moretti,” he says softly, almost like a vow. “And when you’re done, I’ll deal with whatever ashes are left.”

The room feels smaller with him so close, his hand brushing against my waist before he steps away, peeling off his shirt completely. He speaks casually now, but his words carry weight, as if he’s already considered every possible outcome.

“I’ll inform the staff. No one breathes a word about us. Publicly, you’ll be Leina Ashford again.” His eyes flick to me, dark and assessing.

I nod, relief washing over me even as determination hardens my resolve.

Damien disappears into the closet, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I stare at my reflection once more, tilting my chin up.

Natalie’s wedding will be my reintroduction.

My first step back into the city that tried to ruin me.

They won’t see the broken girl who fled.

They’ll see the woman who came back to conquer.

And this time I’m not leaving.

~~~

The sun dips low, casting golden streaks across the mansion’s tall windows. My room hums with quiet, only the soft ticking of the clock breaking the silence as I go through the gowns I brought with me. Bold colors, sleek lines, daring cuts, I’d chosen them carefully, each one meant to make a statement tonight.

But before I can settle on one, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I call out, still staring at the dresses.

The door opens, and one of the housemaids steps inside, holding a long black box wrapped in satin ribbon. She bows slightly before setting it on the bed. “Mrs. Moretti, this was sent up for you. From the master.”

My brows arch. Damien?

I untie the ribbon and lift the lid, and for a moment I forget to breathe. Inside, nestled in tissue, is a gown unlike anything I’ve ever owned..

Deep emerald silk that shimmers with every tilt of light, its bodice sculpted to perfection, the neckline daring yet elegant, the kind of dress that commands silence the moment it enters a room. At its side lies a pair of diamond earrings and matching heels.

Of course. He’s made the choice for me.

I run my fingers along the fabric, equal parts annoyed and…intrigued.

Typical Damien, controlling, calculating, but always precise.

Another knock sounds, firmer this time.

“Trying to decide if you like my taste?” His voice carries through before he even enters.

Damien steps inside, his presence swallowing the space in an instant. His dark eyes drop to the open box, then to me. “Wear it.”

I fold my arms, feigning nonchalance. “And what if I already had a dress picked out?”

“You didn’t.” He says it like a fact, not a question. “You were still debating.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate that he's studied me enough in the three years we've been married.

My lips press into a thin line, but I lift the gown anyway. It catches the light, dazzling. Dangerous.

“Emerald,” I murmur, holding it against me. “Why this color?”

His gaze sharpens, locking onto mine. “Because it makes you unforgettable. And because when they see you standing beside me tonight, I want them to understand you’re not just back, you’re untouchable.”

Something in my chest tightens at his words, though I refuse to let him see it. I turn toward the mirror instead. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

Damien moves closer, his reflection appearing behind mine. “No,” he says softly, almost a whisper against my ear. “Just a man who knows what belongs to him.”

I slip into the dress, its silk gliding over my skin, molding perfectly as if tailored just for me.

He steps behind me and carries the zip up.

When I face him again, his expression is unreadable, but his eyes burn. He doesn’t say a word at first, only studies me with that maddening intensity until finally his lips curve into the faintest, dangerous smile.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now you look like the woman who owns New York.”

I lift my chin, returning his stare without wavering. “I don’t need a dress to do that.”

“No,” he agrees, his voice low and steady. “But this way, they’ll see it before you even speak.”

He steps back and holds out his hand. “Ready for your return, Mrs Moretti?”