There's something in the way they say it — not diminishing, not mocking. Almost like a title earned rather than inherited. The princess who didn't flinch. The princess who walked into a room full of old-world power and smiled like she wasn't afraid.
Maybe she wasn't.
Maybe I wasn't.
Fury and pride hit at the same time, tangled together so tight I can't separate them. Not being seen as an asset, a problem, or a file. Just known. By men who watched me face down Enzo Moretti and decided I was worth talking about.
I hate that it means anything.
It does.
I move past the kitchen before they see me, jaw set, cheeks warmer than I'd like.
I findLuca in the study.
He's on the phone — low, clipped sentences, the voice he uses when he's managing something dangerous. He sees me in the doorway and holds up one finger. I wait.
He ends the call. Sets the phone down. Looks at me with the focus that makes me feel like the only thing in the room.
"Enzo's pushed back his timeline. We have more time than I thought."
"That's not why I'm here."
He waits.
"The guards. They called methe princess."
His expression shifts — not amusement. Not quite. "Does that bother you?"
"It shouldn't."
"That's not what I asked."
I look at him for a moment. The honest answer sits in me like a splinter — small, specific, impossible to ignore.
"It thrills me. And it makes me furious. Simultaneously. Which is extremely inconvenient."
Luca crosses the room. He stops in front of me — close, not touching, the deliberate restraint of a man who knows exactly what touching leads to and is choosing to hold the line. His hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness entirely at odds with everything else he is.
"You walked into that room today. You didn't give Enzo Moretti a single thing he wanted. You sat across from one of the most dangerous men in this city, and you smiled at him." His eyes hold mine. "Princess is the least of what you are."
My throat tightens. I swallow it.
"Don't be nice to me. It's disorienting."
"I'm not nice." His hand drops. He steps back. The wall goes back up, smooth and practiced. "I'm accurate."
Upstairs,I shower, change, then sit on the edge of the bed with the burner phone, trying to feel like myself again.
It doesn't work.
I check the voicemail.
Unknown number. Logged at 6:17p.m. while I was in the elevator with Luca.
I press play.
My father's voice fills the room — warm, familiar, and wrong in the specific way things are when they've been weaponized.
