Matteo

Anastasia’s body is pressed against mine, every curve fitting perfectly under my hands like she was designed for this moment. This is what I should have had from the beginning—not some charity case my father picked out like selecting livestock.

God, I love this woman. The way she moves, the way she commands attention without even trying. She’s everything Serafina never was, never could be. Power, influence, connections that matter. When I walk into a room with Anastasia, people notice. When I was with Serafina, people pitied me.

Sure, Serafina was beautiful. Probably more beautiful than Anastasia, if I’m being honest. That’s exactly why Mother couldn’t stand her—jealousy. Why Bianca made her life hell—threatened by someone who looked like a fucking Renaissance painting but came from nothing.

But beauty without status is just decoration. And I don’t do decoration.

Mother drilled that into me from day one. “Status, Matteo. Status is everything. Money talks, breeding walks, and connections open doors.” She made sure I understood that marrying beneath myself was the fastest way to become irrelevant.

Father, on the other hand, just gave orders. “Marry the girl. Secure the heirs. Do your duty.” End of conversation. That’s how it always was with him—present but not really there. Like having a ghost for a dad who occasionally materialized to issue commands before disappearing back into his office.

I never got the warm family moments other kids had. No throwing a baseball in the backyard or heart-to-heart talks about life. Just expectations and disappointment when I didn’t meet them fast enough.

“Mmm, good morning, handsome,” Anastasia purrs, stretching like a cat in the morning sun streaming through the master bedroom windows.

My bedroom now. Finally.

“Good morning, beautiful.” I kiss her neck, tasting the remnants of her expensive perfume.

“Last night was incredible,” she sighs, running her fingers through my hair. “Though I have to say, this bed is much more comfortable than I expected. Poor Serafina probably never appreciated the thread count.”

“Serafina’s not our problem anymore.”

“Speaking of which,” Anastasia sits up, sheet falling away from her perfect body, “I want the entire master suite redecorated. New furniture, new colors, new everything. I can’t stand the idea of sleeping where she slept.”

The demanding tone should annoy me, but it doesn’t. This is what power looks like—knowing what you want and taking it. Serafina never asked for anything, never demanded anything. Just took whatever scraps they threw her way.

“Whatever you want.”

“And I want the blue room completely redone too. If she’s staying, she needs to understand her place.”

I wonder how Serafina slept last night in that shoebox of a room. If she cried. If she’s finally realizing how disposable she always was.

I don’t feel sorry for her. She got three years of luxury she never deserved.

“Come on,” I say, getting out of bed. “Let’s get dressed. I’m starving.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking downstairs hand in hand. Anastasia looks like she stepped off a magazine cover even at eight in the morning. This is what I should have been showing off for three years.

The dining room is already full when we arrive. Mother’s holding court at her end of the table, Bianca hanging on every word like the devoted daughter she pretends to be. And surprisingly, Father’s there too, reading his paper behind his coffee cup.

Father never eats breakfast with us. Ever. What’s the occasion?

“Good morning, family,” Anastasia announces, settling into the chair that used to be Serafina’s.

“Darling!” Mother practically glows. “You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Verrelli. Though I do hope we can redecorate soon. Some of the décor feels a bit… dated.”

Bianca snorts. “Serafina’s taste was always questionable. No breeding, you know.”

“Where is our former sister-in-law this morning?” Anastasia asks with fake concern.

“Probably crying in her little room,” Bianca says, cutting her fruit with surgical precision.

“How pathetic,” Mother adds. “Though I suppose reality is finally sinking in.”

I grab the newspaper from the side table, needing something to distract from their gossip session. Just as I’m opening it to the business section, the front page catches my eye.

The coffee cup slips from my hand, shattering against the marble floor as I stare at the headline.

“MAFIA PRINCESS RETURNS HOME: Serafina Dorian Reclaims Family Empire”

“IS THAT SERAFINA?!”

Every head at the table whips toward me.

“What are you talking about?” Mother demands. “Serafina is crying in the servant room!”

I hold up the newspaper with shaking hands. The headline might as well be written in blood.

“She’s not,” I whisper, the words feeling like glass in my throat. “She’s Serafina fucking Dorian.”