Chapter 11 – An Enemy’s Hand

The black diamond earring hadn’t moved.

It waited on the edge of Elise’s vanity, catching the light like a secret. She hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even stepped closer. Just sat on the windowsill in her robe as dawn pulled itself slowly over the city skyline.

The silence in her room was deliberate. No music. No distractions. The only sound was her breath, steady but shallow, as she stared at the box.

It shouldn’t exist.

She had hidden the first one the night she woke in this life. It had been torn from her ear in the woods, lost to dirt and betrayal. She remembered brushing her fingers over it before everything went black. Now there were two again.

Identical. Whole.

That was not a coincidence.

She stood slowly, the silk of her robe whispering against her legs, and crossed the room. Her fingers hovered just above the velvet. Close enough to feel the cold. Not close enough to leave a mark.

Her face stayed neutral, but her eyes sharpened.

Someone knew.

Or someone wanted her to believe they did.

She left the earring where it was. Let it sit like bait.

—

The invitation had arrived two days earlier. Thick paper, engraved lettering, sealed with the Bianca crest. A spring luncheon. Legacy families only. It wasn’t optional, no matter how politely it pretended to be. The Biancas were old allies of the D’Amaros, linked by marriages, offshore trusts, and unspoken debts. Camila Caro had once hosted the Bianca matriarch every Wednesday. Elise’s absence would be noticed.

By late morning, she was dressed in a cream blouse that skimmed her skin like touch withheld and a charcoal pencil skirt that narrowed her silhouette to a blade. Her heels were nude, her mouth bare. No earrings. No necklace. No scent.

She descended the stairs like she was stepping onto a stage.

Camila met her near the entrance. She paused.

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“Pearls would soften you.”

“I don’t need soft.”

Camila studied her. “Don’t come back offended when they say you’re cold.”

“I want them to say I'm cold,” Elise replied. “It means they’re paying attention.”

She stepped into the waiting car.

The driver didn’t speak.

—

The Bianca estate shimmered with late spring wealth. White linen tents covered the lawn. Champagne glistened in tall flutes. The air was thick with lavender and expensive restraint.

Elise entered like a promise with teeth. Her blouse caught the sunlight in a slow gleam, and her skirt pulled every glance like gravity. One waiter nearly walked into a hedge watching her pass.

She caught the murmurs.

“Elise Caro,” a woman said softly, half to herself. “Sharper in person.”

“She never wears color,” another murmured. “Intimidating, isn’t it?”

“She’s what happens when the daughter stops trying to please.”

Elise didn’t turn. Didn’t smile.

She was meant to be overheard.

She accepted a glass of water instead of champagne and positioned herself near a low arrangement of hydrangeas. Camila would have called it too understated for a Caro. Elise preferred that. It gave her room to watch.

And that was when she saw him.

A man in a gray suit stood near the terrace doors. Tall. Still. Glass untouched. Alone.

She knew the line of his shoulders. The way he stood with his thumb hooked just below the waistband of his trousers.

Rafe.

He hadn’t changed much. His hair was shorter now. Neater. But the scar across his thumb was still there, pale against his skin.

She remembered that scar—not from the woods, but from a night long before, when Rafe had handed her a glass with that same hand, the scar catching the light.

Elise’s grip on the glass didn’t tighten. Her breath didn’t falter. Only her pulse shifted — a single, heavy thud in her chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

Cassian had said nothing about Rafe. Matteo hadn’t mentioned him. And Rafe had always been discreet. An enforcer, not a guest. Not someone who showed up at legacy events like this.

Unless he had a reason.

She took one sip of water. Turned her back.

Rafe’s gaze followed her — not aggressively, but precisely. She didn’t look again, but she felt it: a pause in the air, like someone about to speak and choosing silence instead.

Inside, she passed through the corridor of mirrors without glancing at her reflection. The powder room was empty. She closed the door quietly and leaned against the sink.

The chill of porcelain met her hands.

Her face in the mirror was still perfect.

Not shaken.

Just awake.

—

She left the luncheon early. Said nothing on her way out. No goodbyes. No polite bows to the host.

She wasn’t there for them.

At home, her room was dim with early evening shadow.

The second earring was still there.

Waiting.

She didn’t look at it this time.

Instead, she opened the black notebook and wrote a name at the top of the page:

Rafe.

Beneath it, a single question:

Did he shoot me?

She paused.

Then added:

Or did someone stop him?

Her pen hovered. The room felt too still.

She’d always assumed she died. Had remembered the sound. The cold. The silence. But now, a thread of dissonance slipped through her thoughts — quiet, but cutting. There’d been no blood. No pain. Just a void. Falling, not ending.

And that changed everything.

Her eyes flicked to the drawer where the first earring was hidden. Tucked beneath scarves she hadn’t touched since winter — quiet, forgettable, safe.

And yet somehow, this second one had arrived.

Perfect.

Untouched.

Which meant someone had been close enough to leave it.

And that was not a warning.

It was a message.

—

Later that night, she joined her parents for dinner.

She wore a gray sheath dress with a neckline just sharp enough to suggest defiance.

Camila studied her over the rim of a wineglass.

“You didn’t stay long today.”

“No one worth speaking to.”

“People are beginning to wonder if you’re difficult.”

“I’m not difficult,” Elise said. “I’m just not pretending.”

Her father didn’t look up from his plate.

Camila’s mouth tightened. “Perception matters.”

“So does accuracy.”

Elise folded her napkin, untouched.

“I’ll dine in my room.”

Camila didn’t stop her.

But Elise saw it — a flicker behind her mother’s still expression.

Curiosity.

Or concern.

It was hard to tell which mattered more.

—

Back in her room, Elise locked the door and crossed to the vanity.

The earring was gone.

The box was empty.

Her chest didn’t tighten. Her breath didn’t catch. But something deep inside her went still.

And she wrote one more thing in the journal before turning off the light:

Someone else remembers.