She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head toward the nearby lounge—a private room where the Family conducted conversations that required discretion.
I didn't refuse.
Some things needed to be said face to face. Some truths demanded witnesses, even if those witnesses were only the ghosts of what I used to be.
Once we sat down in the leather chairs, I studied her.
Flawless, really.
Her white coat was immaculate, not a single crease to suggest she'd ever done real work. Her waves were styled with the kind of precision that required hours and money—both of which Nico had clearly provided.
She smiled.
"That day when the court called about the dissolution of your blood-bound union, Nico didn't answer. I did."
She blinked, her expression almost innocent—the kind of innocence that had been rehearsed in mirrors.
"I had no idea that staying silent meant consenting to the divorce." She pressed a manicured hand to her chest. "You won't blame me for that, will you, Miss Mancini?"
I was quiet for a few seconds.
The weight of what she'd done—what she'd stolen—pressed against my chest like a stone. But I had learned, in three years of marriage to a man made of silence and ice, how to wear a mask.