FOURTEEN

Hazel woke before dawn.

The room was still, The city outside had not yet stirred, and only the faint hum of early rain touched the glass walls.

Her phone lay face down on the nightstand, but she could feel its presence, like a small, living thing pulsing beside her.

She picked it up. The photo was still there. Dimitri’s profile, laughing, the delicate curve of a woman’s red nails resting on his sleeve.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t even frown.

Instead, she looked at the background the mirrored bar, the curve of a marble column, the faint gold lettering of a restaurant logo half-caught in the reflection. She noted the time stamp. The lighting. The angle.

Every detail was registered like an entry in a mental ledger.

Hazel Castell didn’t rage. She archived.

She bookmarked the photo, placed the phone down, and rose from bed in one graceful motion.

The morning air was cool against her bare shoulders as she slipped on her robe and crossed to the window. The city stretched below her like a kingdom made of glass.

She called her assistant, voice steady, calm, measured.

“Find me the guest lists of every restaurant Mr. Moretti has visited this week,” she said. “Quietly. No calls that can be traced.”

“Yes, Miss Castell.”

Hazel ended the call.

She didn’t pace. She didn’t sigh. She simply stood, letting the rain-light touch her face.

In Hazel Castell’s world, silence was sharper than accusation.

By the time she came down for breakfast, her mask was flawless.

Her silver hairpin caught the morning sun, her cream silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored trousers. Every gesture was clean, unhurried, deliberate.

Dimitri was already there, leaning casually against the marble counter, two cups of coffee steaming beside him.

“You’re early,” he said with a grin. “I thought heiresses slept till noon.”

Hazel’s lips curved faintly. “Only when they have nothing to build.”

He chuckled, handing her the smaller cup. “Then I stand corrected. Double espresso, one sugar, no milk, right?”

“Right.” She accepted it with a polite nod.

For a few minutes, they stood in companionable quiet. Dimitri scrolled through the morning reports, commenting lightly on the foundation’s upcoming art gala.

“I was thinking we attend together,” he said. “They’re featuring some Renaissance pieces from Florence, I’d like to see them with you.”

Her gaze flickered toward him, unreadable. “I’m sure it will be lovely.”

He smiled, but there was something in her tone that unsettled him. A softness without warmth.

“You’re quiet today.”

“Am I?”

“Quieter than usual, I mean.”

She stirred her coffee slowly, her reflection rippling in the dark surface.

“You mistake silence for serenity,” she said. “It’s just focus.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “Focus on what?”

“On keeping everything… perfectly balanced.”

Her smile returned, beautiful, effortless, empty.

Dimitri laughed, though he couldn’t quite explain the unease that crept beneath his skin.

By afternoon, her assistant had sent the report.

The restaurant was La Perla, one of Rome’s most exclusive dining spots, known for discretion, decadence, and the quiet exchange of powerful secrets.

The woman’s name: Lucienne Vale.

Model. Brand ambassador. French-Italian. Known for attaching herself to men who photographed well.

Hazel read the file once, then again.

Her expression didn’t change.

Instead, she made one brief call. A third-party contact, an event curator for a fashion luncheon scheduled that afternoon.

“This is Hazel Castell,” she said smoothly. “I’d like to confirm my attendance at the luncheon today. Last-minute. Yes, of course. Discretion, as always.”

When she hung up, she looked at the phone again. The photo still glowed faintly on the screen.

She smiled, faintly, politely, as if looking at a distant memory.

Hazel never hunted in plain sight. She laid mirrors, not traps.

The ballroom shimmered under crystal light.

Perfume, laughter, and money hung thick in the air.

Models, designers, and editors floated between tables draped in ivory silk. The air smelled faintly of champagne and ambition.

When Hazel Castell entered the room, it stilled.

Every head turned. Every whisper softened.

Her dress was pale gray, falling like smoke over her shoulders. Her diamonds were quiet, understated, almost shy, the kind of wealth that no longer needed to announce itself.

She greeted the host with effortless grace, accepted a flute of champagne, and let her eyes wander the crowd, precise, dispassionate.

Then she saw her.

Lucienne Vale.

Flawless skin. Red nails. Nervous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Hazel’s approach was art. Every step measured, every glance calculated.

“Miss Vale,” she said warmly when they met near the floral arch. “I’ve heard remarkable things about your work. You wear confidence beautifully.”

Lucienne’s smile twitched. “Oh,  thank you, Miss Castell. That means a great deal coming from you.”

“I imagine it does.” Hazel’s tone was smooth, cordial. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze resting briefly on the red nails.

Then, just for Lucienne’s ears, she leaned in.

“Red suits you,” she murmured. “You should keep it for someone less committed.”

Lucienne froze.

Hazel drew back, smiling for the cameras that had turned toward them.

“Let’s take a photo together,” she suggested lightly. “You and I, the press will adore it.”

Lucienne nodded, trembling slightly.

The flash went off.

In the photograph, Hazel’s smile was perfect, calm, luminous, devastating.

Lucienne’s was glass.

The rest of the luncheon passed in polite silence. Hazel’s laughter was soft, her gestures graceful. But every time Lucienne’s gaze met hers, she flinched.

And when Hazel finally excused herself, the air seemed to exhale with relief.

Hazel walked out with her usual poise, the hem of her gown whispering against the marble.

Outside, she slipped into her car, crossing her legs elegantly.

Her phone buzzed once. Dimitri.

Dimitri: You were unusually pleasant today.

She smiled, typing back.

Hazel: Am I not always?

Three dots flickered, then stopped.

Narration folded around her like cool silk:

He was learning too late that Hazel’s kindness was a blade in disguise.

That evening, he found her in the study, reviewing contracts.

“You were right,” he said suddenly.

She looked up. “About what?”

“About keeping balance. I’ve been reckless lately. I… want to fix that.”

He was sincere or good at pretending. Hazel couldn’t decide which amused her more.

“You don’t owe me anything, Dimitri,” she said evenly. “This engagement was never about emotion.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’d like to change that.”

She paused. “Change it?”

“Yes.” His tone softened. “I want to know you, Hazel. The real you.”

Her gaze lifted, calm, steady, unreadable.

“You already do,” she said.

He smiled faintly, unsure if she was mocking him. “Do I?”

She didn’t answer.

He took a step closer, as if trying to see past her composure. “You don’t make it easy.”

“Nor should I,” she murmured, closing the folder.

Their eyes met, brief, electric, dangerous.

And then she looked away, ending the moment with the smallest tilt of her head. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be busy.”

He lingered a moment longer before leaving, the sound of his footsteps dissolving into the marble corridor.

Hazel sat still, staring at the flickering reflection of her own face on the dark glass.

For a second, something unreadable, sorrow, maybe crossed her eyes.

Then it vanished.

Hours later, the mansion was silent.

Hazel undressed, folded her clothes neatly, and slid into bed.

Rain tapped lightly on the balcony doors. The sound was steady, hypnotic, almost kind.

She reached for her phone, intending to check her schedule for the next day.

One new message.

No name.

Just a line of text.

La Perla. 8 PM tomorrow. Come alone. – T.

She stared at it, expressionless.

Her thumb hovered above the screen, then slowly lowered the brightness.

No panic. No curiosity. Only that small, cold stillness inside her that always appeared before a storm.

She turned off the light, the city glow painting her face in fragments of gold.

“Interesting,” she whispered to herself.

Then she lay back against the pillow, the faintest smile touching her lips.

“So the game begins again.”