The morning sun broke over Lake Michigan in pale, watery streaks of gold.

In the sun-drenched breakfast pavilion overlooking the gardens, Genevieve sat in a white cashmere sweater, spreading marmalade onto a warm croissant. She looked fresh, innocent, and utterly radiant.

“You were quiet at the end of the evening, darling,” she purred, looking up as Alessandro stepped onto the terrace.

He had changed into a dark slate-gray suit, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He looked relaxed, powerful, and completely at ease.

He leaned down, brushing a gentle kiss against her temple. “Just tired, Genevieve. Three hours of negotiations with the rail union before the party will do that to a man.”

“You work too hard,” she murmured, reaching up to rest her palm against his cheek. Her touch was warm, soft, practiced. “Once we’re married, you’ll let my father handle the logistics wing. You promised me we’d take three weeks in Positano without phones.”

“I remember,” Alessandro smiled, sitting opposite her, letting the butler pour his black coffee. “Positano. We’ll take the yacht out to Capri.”

“It sounds like heaven,” she sighed happily.

At that moment, the glass doors to the pavilion slid open.

Fatima stepped onto the terrace, carrying a fresh silver carafe of orange juice. She kept her head down, her movements quiet and deferential.

Genevieve’s gaze flicked toward the housekeeper.

For a fraction of a second, the aristocratic warmth vanished from her face, replaced by that same, ugly tightness Amara had imitated.

“Excuse me,” Genevieve said, her tone dripping with polite disdain. “Fatima, is it?”

Fatima froze, holding the carafe. “Yes, Miss Ashworth?”

“Where is your child this morning?”

Fatima’s knuckles tightened on the handle. “She is in our quarters, ma’am. She is not disturbing anyone.”

“I certainly hope so,” Genevieve said, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Last night, while the guests were still arriving, she was wandering through the second-floor corridors unchaperoned. This is a private estate, not a day-care facility. Alessandro’s family has valuable art in those halls. If a three-year-old knocks over a seventeenth-century urn, I doubt your wages for the next ten years could cover the insurance deductible.”

Fatima’s face paled. She looked mortified, her shoulders hunching inward. “I apologize, ma'am. It will not happen again.”

Alessandro sat motionless, observing his fiancée.

The cruelty was so subtle, so casual. It was the arrogance of a woman who already believed she owned the ground she walked on.

“Fatima,” Alessandro spoke, his voice smooth as glass.

Fatima jumped slightly. “Yes, Mr. Rienzi?”

“Set the carafe down,” he said gently. “You and Amara have been moved to the third-floor east suite. Starting today, your only responsibility is overseeing the personal household inventory. You no longer serve the dining tables.”

Genevieve’s fork paused in mid-air. Her eyebrows arched in sharp annoyance.

“The third-floor east suite?” Genevieve laughed, though the sound was brittle. “Alessandro, that’s the family guest wing! My bridesmaids are supposed to stay there this weekend!”

Alessandro turned his dark eyes toward Genevieve. His expression was completely neutral, yet something in the depth of his gaze made her breath hitch.

“My house, Genevieve,” he said quietly. “My staff. Fatima has been with us through a difficult winter. She deserves comfort.”

Genevieve stared at him, caught between entitlement and the chilling realization that she had crossed an invisible boundary. She quickly recovered, offering a soft, melodic laugh that didn't reach her eyes.

“Of course, darling,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “You’re far too generous. That’s what I love about you.”

Fatima bowed her head, whispered a grateful thank you, and quickly exited the terrace.

Genevieve leaned forward, tilting her head coquettishly. “Darling, my father called this morning. He wants to review the final appendix of the maritime merger before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. He asked if we could meet at the downtown offices around noon.”

“Of course,” Alessandro replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Tell Arthur I will have the final contracts ready for him.”

And a surprise he will never forget.

Genevieve stood up, leaning over to kiss his lips. “I have a dress fitting at three. Don’t be late for lunch, okay?”

“I won't be late,” he whispered against her mouth.

He watched her walk away, her hips swaying beneath the cashmere, her heels clicking across the stone.

The moment the glass door slid shut behind her, Alessandro reached into his pocket and dialed Dante.

“Have the forensic accounting team finalize the seizure warrants,” Alessandro commanded into the receiver. “And bring Arthur Ashworth’s private driver into room three at the warehouse. Let’s see how much his chauffeur knows about Richard Vance.”