Siena POV

The two lines I posted detonate in the live stream chat.

The scroll of congratulations stutters to a halt, instantly choked by a torrent of accusations.

Viewers brand me a troll, a creature of twisted envy. They call me a jealous outsider, someone who cannot bear the sight of a dynastic union. They decry my insolence, declaring that no shadow could ever fall between the future Don and his chosen Queen.

On the luminous screen, my past self pauses.

The radiant smile on her face falters for a fraction of a second.

She summons a smile, a careful arrangement of facial muscles that does not reach her eyes. The corners of her mouth lift, but the orbicularis oculi, the muscles that would signal genuine feeling, remain slack-the precise mask required for a woman of her station.

She addresses the camera directly, her voice a placid stream, telling the audience to be calm.

She insists there is no need to be angered by a random internet troll, instructing everyone to simply ignore the provocation.

With that, she ends the live stream with a practiced flick of her finger.

The screen goes black.

I sit in the suffocating dark, my hollow eyes staring at the reflection of my own emaciated face on the glass.

Less than three minutes pass.

The telephone, resting on the nightstand, gives a single, violent shudder. The vibration against the polished wood produces a dry, rasping buzz that scrapes against the room's silence.

A friend request has appeared on my private social account.

The verified username belongs to my past self.

She did not ignore me.

I accept the request without hesitation.

The instant the connection goes through, she initiates a video call.

My thumb hovers over the screen, the muscle at its base twitching, before I finally press 'accept'.

The screen splits, displaying her face on the top half and mine on the bottom.

She is sitting in a sun-drenched hotel room, her posture rigid, her jaw set.

She demands to know who I am and how I know Dante Russo's name.

She commands me to cease spreading what she calls "vile poison" about her fiancé.

Raising her chin, she declares that Dante has sworn to protect her since he was seven years old-that he would rather die than allow any harm to befall her.

But before she can finish her sentence, the words snag in her throat.

She finally gets a clear look at my face on the lower half of her screen.

The blood recedes from her face, leaving the skin under her eyes looking thin and bruised, like old parchment.

She stares, her pupils dilating, at my sunken cheeks, the bruised hollows beneath my dead eyes, and the pallor of my skin, which seems to have no blood beneath it.

Leaning closer to her phone, her breathing becomes a shallow, ragged affair.

In a shocked whisper, she asks who I am-and why I look exactly like her.

I open my mouth to speak, ready to tell her the truth.

From the ground floor comes a sound that cuts through the call: the heavy, oiled report of the tumblers turning in the main door's lock.

The sound stops my words cold.

Footsteps strike the marble floor below-a slow, measured cadence that speaks of absolute authority.

Dante is home.