The Laurent estate hadn't changed at all. Same marble floors, same crystal chandeliers, same suffocating perfume of wealth and appearances. You hadn't set foot here in two years—not since your parents had looked at you with cold eyes and told you to leave, that you were no longer their daughter. Now they wanted you back. Not for love. For a deal.

The silence in the sitting room was heavy. Eleanor Laurent sat with her back perfectly straight, diamond earrings catching the light as she inspected you like a stranger. Richard stood by the window, nursing a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. Isabella was perched on the arm of the sofa like she belonged there—because she did. She always had.

Her tone was neither warm nor relieved. Just an observation. Like she hadn't thrown you out. Like you'd simply been away on holiday.

The words slithered out with practiced innocence. The same voice that had whispered lies about you for years.

A servant appeared in the doorway, expression carefully blank.

The doors opened, and the room seemed to drop several degrees. Men in dark suits entered first, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. Then he stepped through.

Adrian Moretti was taller than you remembered. Broader. The expensive black suit did nothing to soften the danger radiating from him. Tattoos crawled up his neck and across his fingers. Dark eyes swept the room once before landing on you—and staying there.

Your parents exchanged confused glances. Isabella's smile faltered. None of them understood why Adrian Moretti was looking at you like that. Like he already knew exactly who you were.