He smiled, slow and wicked. A man who understood vengeance in its purest form.
I looked out the window again, the stars opening wide above us like gates to another world.
“I’ll be back,” I said softly. “Not as his wife. Not as a pawn.”
Salvatore nodded once. “As the queen hunting her king.”
And so the jet flew on.
Carrying the ghost of a woman reborn.
Carrying the reckoning that would shake every throne. They thought they buried me.
They forgot—
I rise.
***
Reagan POV
She’s dead.
Danica fucking De Santis is dead.
The news hit me like a high—pure, intoxicating.
One call, one report, one firestorm.
Burnt body. Ring confirmed. Blood everywhere.
A messy end for a messy bitch.
I poured myself a drink—top shelf, aged in silence like my fury—and sat in my throne of a chair, legs wide, power stretched across every damn inch of this mansion.
“No one crosses me and walks away,” I muttered, tilting the glass.
Dulcie curled up on the couch like the venomous snake she is, laughing in that annoying high-pitched tone she thinks sounds sexy.
“She really thought she could run. Dumb girl. She left looking like a corpse—guess now she is one.”