The morning after the ball dawned cloudy, as if the sky itself mirrored the storm brewing inside Elena’s chest.

She stood by the window in Xavier’s penthouse, wearing one of his silk shirts. Her engagement ring sparkled like a warning on her finger. Every time she looked at it, she felt two things—power and captivity.

Xavier entered with a tray—coffee, croissants, and an envelope.

“Breakfast. And a message from your father’s lawyer,” he said calmly.

Elena turned. “What?”

“He requested a meeting. Privately.”

She took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a short note, handwritten.

Elena, There are things you don’t know. Things I couldn’t tell you before. Meet...