Elara POV

I traced the faces of my civilian parents through the cold glass of the frame. I remembered the smell of fresh rain on dirt roads and the comforting warmth of my mother's rough, calloused hands. I remembered how she had whispered, "You are worth more than all the money in the world, mija," as she pressed a cool cloth to my fevered forehead. She never knew I came from money. She never cared.

Carefully, I wrapped the photograph in a soft sweater and placed it in the center of my battered suitcase. I zipped it shut.

The handle of the expensive leather trunk—heavy with laundered cash, designer jewelry, and every material anchor the Romano Syndicate had ever given me—was cold and unyielding in my hand. I planned to pawn every piece. It was the only way to fund my escape without leaving a digital trail.

After taking a deep breath, I walked out of the heavily guarded safe house. The soldiers at the gate let me pass without question. To them, I was still just the ghost in the attic—present but invisible, someone Julian had never bothered to officially imprison because he never believed I had the spine to leave.

I hailed a yellow cab and directed it to a luxury Manhattan boutique—a gleaming cathedral of marble floors, blinding lights, and designer labels that cost more than cars.

I dragged my heavy luggage toward the consignment counter at the back.

As I turned the corner past a vibrant display of silk scarves, my path was blocked by a wall of dark charcoal wool.

I stumbled backward, my grip on my suitcase failing.

Gasping, I looked up.

Julian was standing there.

Natalia was clinging to his arm, holding three designer shopping bags.

Julian's dark eyes immediately narrowed.

"Why are you dragging luggage through the city like a vagrant?" he demanded, his voice low and threatening.

I could not form the words to answer. Instead, I just reached down to pick up my bag.

Before I could grab the handle, Natalia stepped forward. She kicked my battered suitcase with the pointed toe of her designer shoe. She kicked it so hard that the cheap zipper burst.

My plain cotton undergarments, my faded shirts, and the soft sweater spilled out across the polished marble floor.

The framed photograph of my parents slid out from the folds and hit the ground, the glass shattering with a sharp crack.

Around us, elite shoppers stopped and stared, whispering behind their hands.

Julian moved then—not to help me, but to physically block the view of the bystanders, his broad back becoming a wall between the scene and the public. "Pack your things and go back to the safe house," he commanded. He reached out and grabbed my arm.

I ripped my arm free from his grip.

"Do not touch me," I hissed.

Natalia laughed cruelly. She stepped into the center of the pile of my belongings. She looked down at the shattered photograph of my parents.

With deliberate malice, she raised her foot and brought her stiletto heel down on my mother's smiling face, grinding the broken glass into the marble.

"Look at this garbage," Natalia mocked, her voice echoing in the quiet store. "A pathetic little thief trying to sell our family's luxury goods on the street. This is who you let into our family, Julian. A charity case who never belonged."

I looked down at the ruined face of the woman who had starved herself so I could eat.

The sounds of the boutique—the whispers, the distant traffic—receded into nothing. My vision narrowed until the only thing I could see was the dusty red heel desecrating my mother's memory.

"You monster!" I screamed.

I lunged forward and swung my hand with all my strength. My palm connected with Natalia's cheek in a loud, stinging slap that echoed through the boutique.

Her head snapped to the side.

Before I could pull my hand back, Julian moved. He seized both of my wrists, twisting my arms behind my back and immobilizing me against his hard chest. His grip was brutal, bruising my skin instantly.

He held his own blood sister defenseless. And as I felt his heartbeat thundering against my spine, I realized with cold, perfect clarity that it was not rage I felt from him—it was panic. The panic of a man who had just made the worst mistake of his life and couldn't stop himself from making it worse.

I braced for Natalia's retaliation, knowing Julian would not let go.