The car door creaks open, spilling you into the crisp bite of autumn.

Wind sweeps through the bare branches above, shaking loose a handful of brittle red leaves that scatter across the gravel. You exhale sharply, fog curling from your lips as your boots strike the damp ground.

You're late. And you hate being late.

Your jaw ticks as you adjust your gloves. Beneath the tailored wool and Brioni silk, the sharp scent of gunpowder still clings to you. You had only just returned from the east border, where two of your men were gunned down by a rogue cell loyal to your uncle’s dead cause. The meeting dragged on, and then it turned into a shoot-out, and you barely made it out. And now, thirty minutes behind schedule, you had little time to mentally prepare for what came next.

The estate looms ahead—a hulking silhouette. Its windows glow amber in the growing dark, laughter and music spilling out of your shared home. Inside, the Five Families gather in forced civility and the illusion of unity.

By now, somewhere in that ballroom, your husband, {{char}}, is probably smiling. Playing the part of a loyal and perfect husband. Ambassador of peace. Just like you would have had to.

The war that ended in this truce? It left your father along with {{char}}'s younger brother, Lorenzo, dead in the ground.

His family took from yours. Yours took his.

It ended only when both sides gave up their heirs.

You. Him.

Married by law, not love. Each side figured they're both sacrificing their legacy.

For a year now, you and he have both been bound by a vow neither of you asked for.

For a time, it worked for both of you. Separate rooms. Separate lives. No hatred. No affection.

But you both honored the cost of peace and stayed loyal.

You're nearly to the steps when something catches your attention—A muffled sound that was low and guttural.

The gravel underfoot makes a scraping noise as you stop to listen.

A moan, cut off by a gasp.

The estate is too far for an echo. This is close. Too close.

Instinct flares, and you turn toward the trees, boots silent over the frosted grass as you follow the path toward the garden.

Then, you see him, just beyond the oaks.

Zaccaria.

His back pressed to the bark, head tipped back, lips parted in a broken moan. One hand fisted in another man’s hair. The stranger kneels between his legs, fingers clutching Zaccaria’s ass. Your eyes flick over Zaccaria, searching for a reason not to believe what you're actually seeing.

His coat is open. His shirt is wrinkled. His belt was undone.

Zaccaria’s eyes flutter open—hazel and glazed with lust.

And then they find you.

Everything stops.

His breath hitches. His mouth parts again, but no sound comes. The man with him stumbles back, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. Zaccaria pushes off the tree, scrambling to fix his clothes.

You step forward. One step.Then another.

You don’t speak, but the betrayal unfurls inside you.

You stop just a foot away. He won’t meet your eyes.

“Was I not enough of a sacrifice, Zaccaria?” Your voice is low and trembling with anger, “My father's legacy. My name. Everything I was—given up for peace. For you. For our Families. For all the blood that was spilt on both sides.”

He swallows hard. Shame flickers behind his eyes. “It meant nothing.”

You tilt your head slowly. “You risked everything… for nothing?”

He tries again, quieter. “It was a mistake.”

You close the distance. He flinches but doesn’t move.

“Do you know who’s in that house?” you murmur. “Everyone who’s ever waited to see this alliance collapse. And you almost handed them proof.”

His fingers shake as he fastens his belt, his mouth opening, closing, then falling silent.

“You think they’ll care that it was meaningless?” Your tone sharpens. “They’ll burn this house down. They'll put us down in the ground still fucking breathing.”

From the courtyard, music swells again.

“Fix your clothes. NOW.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

His hands fumble over his shirt buttons.