Chapter 1
Elaine Sinclair
I was nine years old when I met the Moretti's.
At nine, fear didn’t live in my chest the way it did in adults. I didn’t flinch at thunder, or dark hallways, or the sharp barking of strangers. I didn’t fear much at all—except my father.
Back then, I knew the Morettis were powerful. My nana had said it often enough that it became truth before I even understood what it meant. One of the most influential families in the world, she’d whisper, as if even their name could hear her.
But what I didn’t know—what no one bothered to explain to a child—was what they were capable of.
“Anita,” my mother said, her voice crisp as pressed silk. “Fix her up. Make sure she looks presentable.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Anita, my nana, looked down at me, and her eyes softened. Wrinkles gathered at their corners, the kind that came from a lifetime of loving people too hard. She smiled, but her gaze carried something else too.
Pity.
In normal families, mothers did their daughters’ hair. They chose dresses, fastened necklaces, whispered compliments into their little ears until confidence took root.
In my family, my mother gave birth to me.
But Anita raised me.
She reached for my arms with hands that had grown fragile with time, and still, her grip was warm—steady, safe.
“Don’t worry, mija,” she murmured, tapping my nose with her finger. “You’re already very pretty in my eyes.”
Then she smiled wider, like she was trying to give me enough brightness to carry into the day.
“What color dress do you want to wear?”
We walked through the mansion’s long hallway, where dark oak walls swallowed the light and the air always felt a little too still—like the house itself held its breath. Our footsteps echoed as we made our way to my room.
“Hm...” I thought hard, as if the decision mattered more than it did. “Blue! I want something blue today. But not flashy. It’s my big sister’s day.”
Blue, like the sky.
The sky doesn’t demand attention. It simply exists—quiet and endless—so the sun can blaze brighter against it.
I wanted to be that for Olivia.
I wanted her to shine.
“It’s your day too, mija,” Anita said gently, as if she could read the thoughts behind my words. “Never forget that. Every day is your day. Your story.”
She squeezed my hand.
“As well as your sister’s. But blue it is. I have the perfect dress in mind.”
She pushed open the heavy double doors to my room—dark wood carved with gold detailing—and led me inside.
A teardrop chandelier hung above, glass crystals catching light like frozen rain. The walls were beige, polished into perfection. Everything in my room was expensive, curated, and untouched—like a museum display.
I had never been allowed to design it. Not even years later, when I turned eighteen.
The entire mansion was built the same way: flawless, elegant, cold. Monotone oil paintings lined the walls. Black marble vases sat like silent guards in the corners, purchased at auctions where my mother’s name carried more weight than money.
If there was one word for my room, it wasdull.
A perfect contrast to me.
“Sit,” Anita said, guiding me toward the vanity in front of my bed. “And be the pretty princess you are while I go find your dress.”
She pulled out the chair, and I climbed onto it with a grin so wide it nearly hurt. I looked like a child waiting for presents on Christmas morning.
Because I was.
I was truly excited for this day.
“Okay!”
Minutes passed. Then Anita returned, holding a royal blue dress in her hands.
It was sleeveless, falling just below my knees, plain and beautiful. Ruffles kissed the hem, and a bow rested at the back like a secret. There were no crystals, no glitter—nothing loud. It didn’t need any.
Anita set the dress aside and opened the vanity drawers. She pulled out hair ties and a comb, then began brushing through my hair, the motion slow and careful, like she was smoothing out more than tangles.
“How are you feeling, mija?” she asked softly. “Are you excited?”
“Yes!” I said immediately, practically glowing. “I’m excited for Olivia. I really hope Matteo is a good man.”
I paused, then added with all the seriousness a nine-year-old could possess:
“I don’t want anyone to hurt my sister. Ever. And if he does...” I narrowed my eyes at my own reflection. “He’ll get a scolding from me.”
That was me. Fearless. Loud.
And honestly... I still was, even years later.
Anita chuckled, the sound warm as sunlight. “There’s my firecracker. A family should always stick together. You protect one another.”
Her hands paused in my hair.
“That’s what families are all about.”
When she finished, she stepped back.
“There,” she said proudly. “All perfect. My beautiful princess.”
I stared at myself in the mirror.
My face didn’t match Olivia’s. She was my mother’s reflection—soft, golden, elegant. But I belonged to my father.
Instead of golden-brown hair, I had his rich chocolate brown—so dark it looked black unless the sunlight hit it just right. My features were sharper, my lips heart-shaped, my eyes green like olives, like something ancient and foreign.
Those features only became more pronounced as I grew older.
“Thank you, Nana,” I whispered.
“Come on,” she said, taking my hand. “Let’s show your mother and father how pretty you look.”
We walked to the entrance of the mansion, where my parents and Olivia were already waiting.
“Mama...” Olivia’s voice trembled. “I’m nervous.”
She fidgeted her hands together, twisting her fingers until they turned pale.
My mother immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close with practiced grace.
“Everything is going to be alright, darling,” she said, her voice smooth and sweet. “They’re kind people. Especially Matteo.”
She smiled down at Olivia, as if her smile alone could erase fear.
“You don’t have to worry. Just look up. Wear that bright, sparkling smile on your face.”
Anita nudged me forward, and I stepped beside them, giving her one last grateful smile.
“Olivia, you look very pretty,” I told her, taking her hand. “Like... really pretty.”
She looked at me and smiled back. And slowly, her hands loosened.
“Thank you, Elaine,” she said softly. “You too. Right, Mom?”
“Yeah,” my mother replied. “You both do.”
Her eyes landed on me for only a second—barely long enough to register—before returning to Olivia.
My mother favored Olivia. That was obvious enough, even to a child.
Olivia was the eldest. Olivia was the heir. Olivia would carry the Sinclair legacy on her shoulders, granting our family access to power.
And my mother stayed close to her, always. Watching. Guiding. Making sure she stayed calm... and never changed her mind.
Then my mother’s head lifted.
“Look,” she said. “They’re here.”
She straightened Olivia’s posture, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress.
“Give your brightest smile, my darling,” she whispered. “You’re going to meet your prince charming.”
A black Rolls Royce rolled up in front of the mansion.
A man dressed in black—who I assumed was their butler—opened the passenger door first. An Italian man stepped out, wearing an expensive suit in white and black, the fabric crisp and flawless. Then he opened the back passenger door, and a beautiful Italian brunette woman followed.
And then—
Matteo stepped out from the other side.
He walked around the car, slow and sure, like he already owned the air around him.
And for the first time in my life—even as a child—
I was lost for words.
Matteo wasexoticallyhandsome.
Not one boy in my rich academy could compare. Not even close.
He looked godlike.
And even years later...
I still thought so.
