"She's perfect for you, Marco. The wedding is set for June." I stood frozen in the doorway of Marco's study, silver tea tray trembling in my hands as his mother's voice drifted through the crack. I shouldn't have been listening. Good maids don't eavesdrop. But twenty years in the Castellano mansion had taught me that survival meant knowing things before they destroyed you. "Mother, we've discussed this." Marco's voice was tired, that particular exhaustion he got when arguing with Donna Castellano. "I'll marry whoever you choose. It makes no difference to me." "Valentina Russo is more than suitable. Beautiful, educated, from excellent family—" "I said it makes no difference." My fingers tightened on the tray's handles. The antique porcelain rattled softly, a sound that would have earned me a reprimand from the head housekeeper. But she wasn't here. No one was here except me, listening to my world crack apart through a half-open door. "And what about the girl?" Donna Castellano asked. Her tone shifted, became sharper. "Elena." My breath caught. "What about her?" Marco sounded genuinely confused, as if my existence was so inconsequential it didn't merit consideration in his life plans. "You know exactly what I mean. This... arrangement of yours cannot continue once you're married. Valentina's family would never tolerate such disrespect." "Elena knows her place. She always has." Those five words hit harder than any slap. And I'd been slapped plenty growing up in this house—by tutors, by other staff, by reality itself. "Does she?" His mother's voice dropped lower. I pressed closer to the door. "Because I see the way she looks at you, Marco. The way she's always looked at you since you were children. This needs to end." "It will end when I say it ends. Elena is mine. She was purchased for me, raised for me. She's not going anywhere." Purchased. Raised. Mine. The words I'd heard my entire life, the words that had defined every moment since I was seven years old and my drug-addicted mother sold me to the Castellanos for ten thousand dollars and a promise they'd "take good care of her little girl." They had, in their way. Fed me. Clothed me. Educated me alongside Marco until I turned sixteen and his father decided I was old enough to serve in... other capacities. "We'll discuss this later," Donna Castellano said. "The engagement party is Saturday. I expect you to be charming." "I'm always charming, Mother." Footsteps approached the door. I stumbled backward, tea sloshing in the pot, and hurried down the hallway. My soft house slippers made no sound on the marble floors—another skill beaten into me early. Invisible. Silent. Available. Perfect. I made it to the kitchen before the tears came. Stupid. Crying was stupid. I'd known this day would come eventually. Marco was thirty-two, heir to one of the most powerful crime families in the city. Of course he'd marry. Of course it wouldn't be me. I was the maid. The companion. The dirty secret kept in pretty rooms and expensive lingerie. "Elena?" I spun around, swiping at my eyes. Marco stood in the kitchen doorway, still wearing the charcoal suit that made his dark eyes look nearly black. He'd always been beautiful—even at twelve when we'd first met, there'd been something magnetic about him. By sixteen, I'd been hopelessly, pathetically in love. By twenty-four, I'd learned to call it something else. Survival. Necessity. Transaction. "I was bringing your tea," I said, voice steady despite everything. "I apologize for the delay." He crossed the kitchen in three strides and pulled me against him. His cologne—bergamot and cedar—wrapped around me like chains disguised as comfort. "You heard," he murmured into my hair. I didn't answer. Didn't need to. "It changes nothing between us, Elena. You understand that, don't you?" His hand slid down my spine, possessive and familiar. "This marriage is business. Politics. You're—" "Yours," I finished, the word ash on my tongue. "I know." He pulled back, tilted my chin up with two fingers. Searched my face with those beautiful, terrible eyes that had watched me grow from a frightened child into his perfectly trained lover. "Good girl," he whispered, and kissed me. I kissed him back. Let him lift me onto the counter. Let him push up my uniform skirt with practiced hands. Let him take what he'd been taking since I was sixteen and he'd come to my room with champagne and promises that this was love, this was special, this was forever. Forever, apparently, had an expiration date of June. Later, after he'd straightened his tie and returned to his study, I stood in the shower and scrubbed my skin raw. Then I walked to the east wing, to the private suite that had belonged to Donna Castellano before her husband died. She answered on the second knock, unsurprised to see me. "You told him the engagement was set," I said. "I did." "Then we have an agreement?" Donna Castellano studied me with eyes identical to her son's—dark, calculating, missing nothing. "Once he's married, you disappear. Completely. I'll provide money, documents, a new identity. You'll have the freedom you've never had." "And if Marco tries to find me?" Her smile was cold. "Marco believes you're a loyal dog who'll never leave his side. Use that assumption. Let him think you're content until the moment you vanish." I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt hollow. "He'll be angry," I said. "He'll survive. Men like my son always do." She paused. "This is your only chance, Elena. Your only way out of this family. Once he's married, I won't make this offer again." I nodded. "I understand." "Good. The wedding is in eight weeks. Start preparing." Eight weeks. Fifty-six days to pretend everything was normal while planning my escape from the only home I'd ever known. From the only man I'd ever loved. Even if that love had been built on chains I'd been too young to recognize as bondage.