The rich blend of cedarwood and the crisp sharpness of pine filled the lobby like a territorial claim staked in cologne.

It was unmistakable. Almost suffocating in its boldness. Cyrus Tangieri was waiting for me on the ground floor of the Sogno Publishing building, his signature scent announcing his presence long before I rounded the stairwell and caught sight of him through the glass. Another one of his "makeup" appearances, no doubt. Another performance of a man who refused to accept that the curtain had already fallen.

I wrinkled my nose. The heir to the most powerful crime family on the Eastern Seaboard, and he stood there broadcasting himself like a billboard in the middle of a civilian workspace. Did the man have no sense of discretion?

I glanced around, surprised by the absence of the usual spectacle that trailed Cyrus wherever he went. No breathless admirers pressing against the doors, no society-page photographers lurking on the sidewalk. Only a handful of my colleagues lingered near the copy room, nervously peeking around the doorframe with the wide-eyed reverence of people who understood exactly what kind of man was standing in their lobby. I wondered if he had stationed soldiers at the building's perimeter, quietly turning away anyone who might cause a scene. The thought settled in my mind as I descended the remaining flights of stairs, each step measured, deliberate, until I stopped just short of him.

I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Cyrus frowned, a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned and walked to the passenger side of his black sedan, opening the door with the practiced ease of a chauffeur.

If it weren't for the impeccably tailored charcoal suit and the jet-black hair interrupted by that single streak of gold, the hereditary Tangieri mark that every firstborn carried like a brand, he could have passed for one.

"Patrizio invited us to dinner tonight," he began, his voice cool and unhurried. "He's celebrating a successful expedition. Something about a rare cache of liquid silver he tracked down overseas."

I placed a hand on my hip, cutting him off. "And?"

A deeper crease formed between his eyebrows. "Get in."

I crossed my arms tighter, not missing a beat. "I never said I wanted to go with you, did I?"

"Adriana." His voice dropped, low and edged, the way a man spoke when he was accustomed to being obeyed.

I didn't care. I turned on my heel and started walking toward my apartment, leaving him standing by the open car door with his hand still resting on the frame.

There was a time when I would have rushed to him, told him to get back inside the car, worried that someone might recognize him. Cyrus, with his tall, athletic frame and those devastating features, was the living embodiment of everything the Braveclaws Territory idolized: power, lineage, danger wrapped in beauty. Back then, I would have done anything to shield him from prying eyes, to keep him safe from the attention that followed him like a second shadow.

But now? Now I no longer cared. Let the world have its fill of him. I wasn't his woman anymore, and I had no obligation to protect what wasn't mine.

Beep!

"Adriana!"

I glanced over my shoulder. Cyrus had pulled the sedan alongside the curb and was creeping forward, matching my pace step for step, the engine purring low like a predator stalking its prey.

I turned my head back and kept walking, refusing to be swayed. "Stop following me, Cyrus. We're done."

Beep!

"Cyrus!" I spun around, frustration flaring through my chest.

The car lurched to a stop with a sharp screech of brakes that made me flinch, my hands flying instinctively to cover my ears. The sound cut through me, setting every nerve on edge. When I finally lowered my hands, I saw that Cyrus was still in the driver's seat, leaning across the center console to push the passenger door open from the inside.

Just as I was about to snap at him, a voice rang out from somewhere down the block.

"Hey! Isn't that the Tangieri car?!"

My heart plummeted. The recognition in that voice, the rising pitch of excitement and awe. Oh no. I was absolutely not prepared to be surrounded by Cyrus Tangieri's admirers right now. The last thing I needed was my face plastered across the society pages next to his, feeding gossip columns with speculation about a reconciliation that didn't exist.

"Drive!" I threw myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut and hitting the lock. My eyes widened as I watched a cluster of figures materialize from storefronts and side streets, converging on the sedan with alarming speed.

Where did they even come from?

"You really want to come with me now?" Cyrus asked. Amusement threaded through his voice like silk through a needle.

I bared my teeth at him, every survival instinct in my body screaming to get away from the gathering crowd. "Just drive!"

A low chuckle escaped him, barely audible. He shifted the car into gear, and we eased through the growing knot of onlookers, accelerating smoothly until the figures shrank in the rearview mirror and disappeared.

It was then that the scent hit me.

Vanilla. Thick, expensive, and almost cloying in its sweetness, it saturated the leather interior like perfume sprayed directly onto the seats.

My eyes swept the dashboard, searching for a bottle, an air freshener, anything that might explain it. But as I inhaled again, the realization settled over me like a cold hand on the back of my neck. This wasn't manufactured. This was Lilith Dicellore's signature perfume, lingering in the cabin the way a woman's presence lingers in a room she's claimed.

I couldn't help but wonder what exactly she had done in this car for her scent to be so strong, so pervasive. How long she had sat here. How close.

Suppressing a scoff, I shot a sideways glare at Cyrus. "Well, well. I never knew you were so fond of vanilla."

"Hm." Cyrus gave a noncommittal grunt, his fingers making a subtle adjustment on the steering wheel.

What was that supposed to mean? The ambiguity gnawed at me, the unanswered question hanging in the enclosed space alongside Lilith's lingering perfume.

After that, silence settled between us like a wall. Cyrus drove me first to his preferred tailor on the old quarter's main avenue, a discreet establishment with no signage and a doorman who recognized the Tangieri sedan on sight. I changed into a navy-blue dress that had been selected with an unsettling precision for my measurements, and then we headed to La Rotta d'Oro, a high-end restaurant tucked behind an unassuming facade on the waterfront, for Patrizio's private celebration.

We were led up a narrow staircase to a reserved room on the second floor. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the lighting low and amber, the kind of room where deals were made and secrets were buried over expensive wine. As the staff opened the door, I noticed Patrizio and Lilith already seated inside. Lilith's expression flickered with surprise for the briefest moment when she saw me, a crack in her porcelain composure that she sealed almost instantly.

"Hey, you two!" Patrizio beamed, waving enthusiastically from his seat with a glass of prosecco already in hand.

Lilith withdrew her hands from the white tablecloth and crossed them over her chest, settling back in her chair with studied ease. "Hello, Adriana. Cyrus. What took you so long? Traffic?"

I gave a simple shrug, offering her a polite smile that didn't reach my eyes before turning to Patrizio.

"It was a last-minute invite, Rick. Sorry I didn't bring a gift, but congratulations on the successful expedition."

Patrizio Finetti was an eccentric of the highest order, a man whose vibrant personality could fill a cathedral. In the world of luxury goods and high-end jewelry, the Finetti name was synonymous with genius. Their goldsmith empire, the most renowned on the Eastern Seaboard, served as one of the most sophisticated fronts in the territory's financial architecture. Last year, Patrizio had embarked on an unexpected overseas expedition with a handpicked team and a budget that raised eyebrows even among people accustomed to extravagant spending, leaving most of the Family's associates puzzled by his abrupt departure.

However, Patrizio was nothing if not relentless. He simply ignored the whispered speculation in the society pages, the gossip that the young genius had finally pushed his eccentricity too far, that the Finetti heir had traded brilliance for madness.

I had become acquainted with him through Cyrus, who often brought me along to his regular gatherings with his closest circle: Patrizio and Lilith. The three of them had been raised together, inseparable since childhood, bound by the informal alliance between their families. It was through those dinners and late-night conversations that I had come to know Lilith as well.

"Don't worry about it. Rick unearthed a treasure worth millions. Literally. He's got more than enough gifts coming his way," Cyrus remarked as he guided me toward the table, his hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching it.

"Hey," Patrizio retorted, feigning offense and pressing a hand to his chest. "I'd appreciate any gift from a good friend, especially a beautiful woman like Adriana here. Unlike some picky heir to the throne!"

Lies. My gaze snapped back to Patrizio, narrowing slightly.

I had never once seen him use or even acknowledge any of the gifts I had given him. Not a single one. Not like that gold-framed pair of sunglasses from Lilith that he carried everywhere, tucked into his breast pocket even when he didn't wear them, like a talisman. Or that ridiculous sunflower pin Cyrus had given him as a joke, which Patrizio brought up constantly at dinners for laughs, turning it over in his fingers with genuine affection.

It was only then that the truth crystallized fully, sharp and cold as a blade laid flat against skin. Lilith was the same. She and Patrizio never used my gifts, except for the occasional appearance on the society pages. A photograph here, a mention there, enough to maintain the illusion of warmth.

A sinking realization settled in my gut like a stone dropped into dark water. Maybe my suspicions weren't so far-fetched after all. Perhaps they had never truly accepted me. They had merely tolerated my presence to save face for Cyrus, to avoid embarrassing the Tangieri heir by openly rejecting the woman he had chosen.

They had never approved of our relationship. Their coldness toward me had always been there, just beneath the surface, hidden behind polite smiles and rehearsed pleasantries.

"I'm not picky!" Cyrus's voice rose slightly in defense as he paused mid-step. "I just don't see the point in using certain things. That's why—"

And there it was. The start of Cyrus and Patrizio's usual banter, the easy back-and-forth of men who had known each other since before they understood what their last names meant. Normally, I would have found their sparring amusing, even endearing. But tonight, I had no desire to linger. My eyes scanned the room for a seat.

The two remaining chairs sat opposite one another, one beside Patrizio and one beside Lilith.

"Since we're late, let's not keep Rick and Lily waiting any longer," I said, settling into my chair with a finality that closed the conversation. I wanted this evening over with.

A heavy silence descended over the table. I didn't bother to glance at Cyrus to gauge his reaction.

"Alrighty! Let's eat!" Patrizio's exuberant voice cut through the quiet like a match struck in a dark room. He waved over the waiter with a flourish.

Soon the table was laden with dishes, and conversation began to flow around me like a current I chose not to swim in. I made occasional comments but otherwise remained quiet, content to sip my drink and work through the food on my plate.

As the evening progressed, I watched Cyrus peeling prawns with meticulous care, his long fingers working with a surgeon's precision as he stripped each shell and placed the cleaned meat on a plate beside Lilith. I couldn't help but chuckle inwardly, though the sound that echoed in my chest held no warmth. Cyrus had always despised prawns. He had told me more than once that peeling them was too much hassle, that the effort wasn't worth the reward.

Yet here he was, serving them to Lilith without a word of complaint. Without even being asked.

The sight made me frown. The effort he put into catering to her was starkly different from how he had ever treated me. With Lilith, Cyrus moved on instinct, as though caring for her was something encoded in his blood, as natural and unconscious as breathing.

It seemed I wasn't the only one who noticed.

Patrizio suddenly shot a sidelong glance at me, something quick and unreadable flickering behind his eyes, before he nudged Cyrus with a playful shove.

"Look at you, Mr. Young Don! Don't just pile all the prawns on Lilith's plate. Can't you see this plate over here needs some love too?" He gestured with his thumb toward the empty plate beside me.

Cyrus blinked. He went still, momentarily dazed, as if he had just realized what he had been doing.

He paused, looking down at the prawn in his hand with an unreadable expression, before his gaze slowly lifted to meet mine.

Cyrus blinked, his dark eyes lingering on me for a beat too long before drifting toward the velvet-curtained VIP entrance. His expression gave nothing away. It never did. But something in the quality of his stillness, the way the candlelight caught the gold streak at his temple, unsettled me in a way I couldn't name.

"Another round of the tangy dragon prawns," he told the waiter, wiping his hands on a linen napkin with the kind of deliberate, measured control that governed every movement he made. Each fold precise. Each gesture unhurried. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the low light as he set the napkin down.

"There's no need." I raised a hand, stopping the waiter mid-turn, and reached for the glass of water beside my plate. The coolness of the crystal steadied my nerves, grounded me in the present. "I'm not in the mood for prawns."

Cyrus's brows drew together, a flicker of frustration passing behind those unreadable eyes. "We can try something else. How about the fish?"

"No need," I repeated.

His jaw tightened as he studied me, searching for something. "What about beef then? It's your favorite."

"No." My voice came out firm, final, leaving no room for negotiation.

Cyrus went still. Not the practiced stillness of a man accustomed to controlling rooms and commanding silence. This was surprise, raw and unguarded, lasting only a fraction of a second before the mask slid back into place. The tension between us thickened, settling over the table like smoke from the candles guttering in their iron holders.

I broke eye contact first. I reached for my napkin and wiped my mouth with careful, deliberate strokes, forcing composure into every movement the way a woman forces thread through the eye of a needle.

I turned to Patrizio, keeping my voice steady despite the warmth of the wine still humming through my blood. "Sorry, Patrizio. I've got to be at the office early tomorrow to wrap up a project. Benedetto would have my head if I showed up late."

I rose from my seat. My steps were unsteady, but manageable. The heels of my shoes clicked against the private dining room's marble floor. "I'll be heading home now. Can't afford to fall behind schedule."

Lilith's voice sliced through the murmur of the room, threaded with a concern so delicate it could have been spun from glass. "Adriana, is this because of me? Are you upset?" Her dark lashes lowered, her gaze dropping to her hands in her lap, guilt arranged across her features like a jeweler setting stones. "You can have the prawns from my plate if you'd like. Cyrus was just trying to help me with them. Please, don't be mad at him."

Her tone painted me as the villain. The jealous outsider making a scene at a Family dinner. I raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

"Me? Upset? No, no, no. It's not like that." I waved her concern away with a loose gesture, biting back the sarcasm that clawed at the back of my throat. I wasn't angry. I was simply exhausted. Exhausted by all of it. "I just really need to get some rest is all. I'll be heading out now. Enjoy the rest of your meal."

With a calm smile that cost me more than anyone at that table would ever know, I slid out of my chair and pushed it back beneath the edge of the white tablecloth.

A firm grip closed around my wrist.

I startled, looking up to find Patrizio's intense gaze locked onto me. His rings pressed cold against my skin.

"You really need to chill, Adriana," he said, his scowl deepening, carving hard lines into his otherwise handsome face. "Are you still mad at Cyrus? Is this about him attending the meeting with Lily yesterday?"

The directness caught me off guard. The aggression coiled beneath his words even more so. The last time Patrizio had spoken to me, his demeanor had been measured, almost playful. This was something else entirely.

"Patrick." Cyrus's voice cut through the air like a blade drawn from its sheath. His eyes narrowed at the hand clamped around my wrist.

Before Patrizio could respond, Lilith spoke again, her voice carrying the precise weight of a woman accustomed to defusing tensions between dangerous men. "I'm so sorry, Adriana. I realize the mood turned sour because of me." She paused, her expression arranged into something that looked, from every angle Cyrus could see, entirely sincere. "I should've asked you to invite Cyrus instead of assuming. And Cyrus, you owe Adriana an apology as well."

Cyrus raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. "Apologize?" He glanced between Lilith and me, confusion clouding his sharp features.

From the angle where I stood, I caught what Cyrus could not. Lilith leaned back in her chair, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. A flicker of satisfaction. She seemed oddly pleased with how the evening was unraveling.

Cyrus turned back to Lilith, his expression serious, the candlelight casting deep shadows beneath his cheekbones. "Yesterday was a crucial sit-down. You needed my help to secure the bid, right? The Dicellore import operation is a cornerstone of the Braveclaws Territory. I came to assist, to smooth things over with the other families. What's the issue?"

His words hit me like a fist to the sternum. The anniversary he had promised to be present for, the one evening I had asked him to keep sacred, was buried under business. Under the Family. Under her.

"Yeah, you're right!" I cut him off, my voice edged with a cheerfulness so brittle it could have shattered against the floor. I wrenched my wrist free from Patrizio's grip and turned to face the room. "No need for apologies, Cyrus." I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Didn't even come close. "I really need to go and get ready for work tomorrow."

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out of the VIP room, holding myself together with every step, my spine straight, my chin level. The heavy door swung shut behind me, but not fast enough. Their voices bled through the gap before the latch caught.

"Cyrus, she's clearly upset. You should apologize." Lilith's voice was firm, cutting through the tension with surgical precision.

"But she said herself that no apology was needed!" Patrizio's interruption was sharp, his frustration scraping against the words.

"Patrizio—"

"What?"

"Enough, both of you." Cyrus's voice, low and decisive, ended it. "She just needs more time to calm down."

I gritted my teeth. The words stung more than I cared to admit, burrowing under my skin like shards of glass. She just needs more time to calm down. As though I were a child throwing a tantrum. As though my feelings were an inconvenience to be managed.

I ignored the muffled exchange behind me and walked through the restaurant, past the mahogany bar, past the hostess who smiled without seeing me, and out into the cold night air. I flagged down a taxi at the curb, my heart pounding with a toxic cocktail of anger and hurt.

As the car sped through the darkened streets toward my apartment, my mind raced.

Ridiculous.

How could Cyrus dismiss my feelings so easily? Why did they all treat me like I was the villainess in this scenario?

The frustration was suffocating. Worse than suffocating. The air itself felt like it was conspiring against me, pressing in from all sides, thick and hostile.

Had I really become that person? Constantly angry at Cyrus for spending time with Lilith? Was that why he could speak so dismissively, so confidently, as though he already knew the script and I was the only one who hadn't read it?

But my pain was real. The way Cyrus seemed to prioritize Lilith over everything else was not imagined. It was happening, day after day, incident after incident. I had watched him drop everything to be at her side, leaving me feeling neglected and unimportant, like a piece of furniture in a room he no longer entered.

As I struggled to contain the storm inside me, tears slipped down my cheeks. I turned my face toward the window so the driver wouldn't see. I tried to stifle my sobs, pressing my knuckles against my lips, but the pain was too raw. Too real. It spilled out of me in the dark backseat of that taxi like blood from a wound that refused to close.

Cyrus: [Are you home yet?]

I closed my phone the moment his message flashed across the notification bar.

With a frustrated sigh, I set the phone aside on the study desk I had just finished wiping down. A few hours ago, my old apartment had felt cold and unwelcoming, the air thick with the dust that had accumulated during two years of absence. Two years I had spent at Cyrus's penthouse, playing house in a world that was never truly mine.

I let out another breath, this one closer to relief, as I looked around at the much cleaner space. The bare walls. The simple furniture. The silence that belonged only to me.

"Finally," I muttered, tossing the dirty rag into a corner just outside the bedroom. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing away the day's grime until my knuckles were pink, before collapsing onto the now-pristine bed. The sheets smelled of detergent and nothing else. No cedarwood. No pine.

As if on cue, my phone vibrated against the desk, insistent and relentless.

Cyrus: [The dinner tonight didn't end well because of how you acted. Let's make it up to them soon. We will invite them to another dinner.]

I closed the messaging app, leaving his message marked as [read], and stared at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked in one corner. A water stain spread outward like a bruise.

Because of how you acted.

The words sat in my chest like a stone.

Just as I was about to surrender to the mercy of sleep, my phone rang again, the vibration steady and demanding against the wood. I glanced at the caller ID.

[Cyrus].

"Sure, Cyrus. Sure." I let his name pulse on the screen, unanswered, until the call died on its own.

I opened InstaPic instead, scrolling without purpose, without thought. The first post that filled my screen belonged to @Lilith.Dicellore.

It was a photograph taken in the backseat of Cyrus's black town car. Cyrus was turned away, his sharp profile caught in half-shadow, one hand holding his phone, his attention fixed on something distant and unreachable. Lilith was leaning against his shoulder, her dark hair cascading over the lapel of his coat, a wide, triumphant smile lighting up her face. The warm glow of the car's interior made it look intimate. Deliberate.

The caption beneath the photograph read: [Thank you Mr. Heir for always making me your number one :)]

At the very bottom of the post, the timestamp glowed faintly. [120 seconds ago]. And beside it, a small tag: [close friends only post].

I scoffed. A short, hollow sound in the empty apartment.

So Lilith had finally decided to stop pretending. To be direct about her intentions, her claim, her quiet war of attrition.

Fine. Go ahead and take Cyrus away. It no longer mattered to me.

I let out a mocking smile, the kind that tasted like ash, and tapped out a comment beneath the post. My fingers moved with deliberate detachment, each letter pressed with the calm of someone who had already decided to stop caring.

[Congratulations on being number 1!]

I hit send and decided to call it a night.