The first time I entered Dante Moretti’s penthouse, I thought it looked more like a museum than a home.

Over the next three weeks, the tension inside the Moretti penthouse reached a boiling point.

Dante began spending more time at home, explicitly rejecting Celeste’s invitations to high-society galas and charity balls. Instead, he stayed in his study, working late into the evening. And almost every night around midnight, he would wander into the kitchen while I was finishing my late duties.

We didn't talk about the mob or his dangerous empire. We talked about simple things. He asked about Mateo’s ambition to become a civil rights lawyer. I listened as he spoke fondly of his late father and his dream of eventually legitimate-izing all of the Moretti family businesses.

"You bring peace into this house, Serena," Dante told me late one evening, watching me pour a fresh cup of tea. "For years, this place has felt like a golden cage filled with wolves. But when you're in the room... it feels like a home."

I looked up, catching his intense, dark gaze. The pull between us was magnetic, undeniable, and terrifying.

"Dante... you're engaged," I reminded him softly, my heart aching.

Dante’s jaw tightened, and he took a step closer to me. "The engagement with Celeste was an arrangement made by our fathers before my father died. It was business. But I will not spend the rest of my life chained to a woman who has no soul."

He reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The sensation sent shiver down my spine.

"I am ending the alliance, Serena," Dante promised softly. "Very soon."

I left the penthouse that night with my heart racing. But I was naive to think Celeste would let hundreds of millions of dollars and ultimate power slip through her fingers without a fight.

Three days later, a massive snowstorm trapped everyone inside the high-rise penthouse. The wind howled against the heavy glass windows, blocking out the Chicago skyline in a shroud of white.

Valentina was feeling particularly frail that afternoon. She was resting in her sunroom, wrapped in a cashmere blanket.

"Serena," Celeste called out from the kitchen counter. Her voice was suspiciously sweet, her face relaxed into an artificial smile. "Valentina asked for her special chamomile tea. I was just about to make it for her, but I know how much she prefers your touch. Why don't you bring it to her?"

I approached the kitchen island cautiously. A teacup was already resting on a silver tray, steam rising gently from the golden liquid. Next to it sat a small bottle of Valentina’s prescription heart drops.

"I can brew a fresh pot, Miss Bowmont," I said guardedly.

"Nonsense! I already steeped the herbs," Celeste insisted, smoothing down her designer dress. "Just add two drops of her heart medication—as prescribed—and take it in. I'm going to my room to rest."

Celeste gave me a cold, enigmatic smile and turned on her heels, stepping out of the kitchen and heading toward the residential wing.

My instincts screamed at me. Something is wrong.

I walked over to the silver tray. I looked down at the teacup, then at the bottle of heart medication. The liquid inside the glass dropper looked normal, but something about Celeste’s sudden kindness made my blood run cold.

I picked up the small bottle of medicine. The cap felt slightly loose. I held it up to the light. The medication was supposed to be a clear, faint amber color. But the fluid inside the dropper had a faint, milky tint to it.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

Celeste hadn't just added the prescription medication. She had tampered with it. She knew I was responsible for serving Valentina her afternoon tea. If Valentina drank that tea and suffered a fatal heart attack or stroke, the autopsy would show an overdose of her own prescription—and I would be the primary suspect. Celeste would destroy Valentina, eliminate her biggest critic, frame me for murder, and secure her place as Dante’s grief-stricken consoler all in one swift stroke.

Panic surged through me. I grabbed the teacup and immediately dumped the liquid down the sink, rinsing the glass thoroughly with hot water.

Before I could process my next move, a faint sound echoed down the hallway.

A thud. Followed by a horrific, gasping sound.

"Mrs. Moretti!" I gasped, dropping the teacup into the sink.

I sprinted out of the kitchen and rushed toward the sunroom.

When I burst through the glass doors, my lungs seized in terror.

Valentina wasn't drinking tea. She had tried to walk to the window on her own, collapsed against a side table, and was now lying motionless on the hard floor. A shattered glass vase lay smashed into a hundred sharp shards around her body, water and blue petals spilling across the white marble.

"Mrs. Moretti!" I cried out, rushing to her side.

I didn't care about the sharp, broken glass cutting into my bare knees and hands as I dropped down beside her. I didn't care about the pain. I grabbed her fragile wrist, searching frantically for a pulse.

"Help! Someone call an ambulance!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly, heavy heels clicked furiously against the marble behind me.

"What did you do?!" Celeste’s voice shrieked from the doorway, filled with exaggerated, theatrical horror. "Oh my God! What did you do to her?!"

I turned around, my breath catching. Celeste stood there, her eyes wild, holding her phone. She hadn't called an ambulance—she was staring down at me with pure, evil victory in her eyes.