The rehearsal dinner at the Rienzi estate was held in the grand conservatory, a soaring Victorian glass pavilion filled with blooming night-jasmine, trailing orchids, and twinkling fairy lights.

Forty people—the immediate Ashworth family, corrupt city officials, and high-society sycophants—raised their glasses of Cristal champagne.

Genevieve looked breathtaking in an off-the-shoulder emerald gown that matched the engagement ring on her finger. She stood at the head of the long banquet table, leaning against Alessandro’s shoulder, radiating triumphant perfection.

Her father, Arthur Ashworth, stood at the podium to deliver the toast.

Arthur was sixty-two, silver-haired, with the polished, dignified air of a patrician banker. He cleared his throat, tapping his crystal flute with a silver butter knife.

“To family,” Arthur smiled, looking at Alessandro with warm, paternal affection. “To the union of two great houses. My daughter has found a protector, a partner, and a visionary. Alessandro, you have saved our heritage, and tomorrow, we cement a bond that no force on earth can break.”

Applause echoed through the glass pavilion.

Genevieve turned to Alessandro, her eyes shining with false adoration, and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered against his ear.

Alessandro looked into her eyes. “I know you do, Genevieve.”

He stood up, adjusting his cuffs.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Alessandro’s voice cut through the room, commanding instant silence. “Your words mean more to me than you know. But before we finish our dessert tonight, I have a small surprise for my bride-to-be.”

Genevieve gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “Alessandro! You already gave me the diamond necklace!”

“This is something more personal,” Alessandro said, nodding toward the entrance of the conservatory.

The heavy glass doors opened.

Dante walked into the room, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit. Beside him walked Fatima, wearing an elegant dark-blue silk gown Alessandro had ordered for her that morning, holding Amara’s hand.

The little girl was dressed in a pretty white dress, clutching her gray lamb, her eyes wide as she looked at the twinkling lights.

A murmur of confusion rippled through the guests.

Genevieve’s smile instantly froze. Her eyes darted from Dante to Fatima, a flash of pure panic flickering across her pupils before she masked it behind an arched eyebrow.

“Alessandro?” Genevieve whispered, her voice tight. “What is this? Why are the servants here?”

“This little girl gave me some very sound advice two nights ago, Genevieve,” Alessandro said, his tone casual, almost playful, as he stepped around the banquet table.

He bent down, scooping Amara into his arms. The little girl rested her chin on his broad shoulder, completely at ease with the most feared man in the city.

Alessandro walked back to the center of the conservatory, facing Genevieve and her father.

“Amara told me something fascinating,” Alessandro continued, his dark eyes locking onto his fiancée. “She told me that she heard a woman talking on the phone in the library. A woman who said that when the wedding happens, everything changes. And that I wouldn't see it coming.”

The color drained from Arthur Ashworth’s face so fast he had to grip the edge of the podium to keep his balance.

Genevieve let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Alessandro! Are you insane? You’re listening to the fairy tales of a maid’s toddler? At our rehearsal dinner?!”

“It wasn't a fairy tale, Genevieve,” Alessandro said softly.

He snapped his fingers.

The projection screens mounted on the conservatory walls—which had been displaying childhood photos of Alessandro and Genevieve—flickered.

Suddenly, high-definition surveillance footage appeared across all three displays.

There was Genevieve, leaning in the library alcove, holding her burner phone.

Her recorded voice boomed through the Bose sound system, filling the glass hall with crisp, damning clarity:

“...Once the vows are exchanged on Saturday, the joint trust automatically merges the shipping terminals… Alessandro won’t see it coming until the maritime charter is transferred to your offshore account, Richard… Just have the transport ready at Pier 14.”

The glass dropped from Arthur Ashworth’s hand.

It shattered against the stone floor, champagne splashing across the hem of Genevieve’s emerald gown.