The Terrace Katarina leaned against the stone railing of the terrace, her silhouette cut sharply against the twilight sky. At fifty-two, she possessed a stillness that only came with time—a confidence that didn't need to shout to be heard. Her hair, a perfectly coiffed sweep of icy blonde, caught the last of the fading light. She took a slow sip of champagne, her sapphire-blue eyes narrowing as she surveyed the crowded ga...

The first light of the Italian morning, filtered through heavy velvet curtains of midnight blue, cast the bedroom in a private, golden hue. The air was still, heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering musk of the night before. Belle floated back to consciousness slowly, drifting through the soft layers of sleep, but she did not wake to the sound of an alarm or the chirping of birds. Instead, she was pull...

Katarina led Belle away from the blinding brilliance of the Italian sunlight, moving deep into the heart of the villa where the air grew cool and heavy with the scent of aged cedar and beeswax. They reached a door of dark, polished mahogany. When Katarina pushed it open, they entered a windowless room—a sanctuary built for a singular, focused purpose. The walls were draped in heavy, sound-dampening velvet of a deep, bruis...