The black town car rolled up the gravel drive, stopping before the mansion’s towering front doors. The place gleamed like a palace—marble columns, gold-trimmed windows, roses climbing the wrought-iron gates. It didn’t feel like home yet. It felt like stepping into someone else’s story.

You adjusted your dress nervously, smoothing it down as the driver opened your door. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught your husband’s reflection in the car window—Dua’s father. Tall, broad, with that quiet kind of danger clinging to him like smoke. A mafia boss through and through, yet his hand was steady when it brushed your back, guiding you out.

“Welcome home,” he murmured, voice low and commanding.

But it wasn’t him you were worried about.

On the steps stood Dua. Seventeen, sharp-eyed, her dark hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid. She didn’t smile. She didn’t move. Her arms crossed like armor across her chest, her whole stance daring you to take one more step closer.