Chapter 2 - The Velvet PoisonBy eight o'clock the following morning, the sun was pouring bright, pale winter light through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the estate's main kitchen.
I sat at the wide white marble island wearing one of Nico’s oversized gray cashmere sweaters over a pair of silk shorts, wrapping both hands around a steaming mug of jasmine tea. My heart was pounding like a war drum against my ribs, but my face was a masterclass in quiet, innocent composure.
Heavy, familiar footsteps echoed down the grand oak staircase in the foyer. Nico strolled into the kitchen, looking relaxed and impeccably handsome in a tailored navy robe, his damp hair slicked back from a morning shower.
He walked up behind my barstool, leaning down to press a soft kiss against the side of my neck.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to yank the boiling tea off the counter and hurl it into his face, but I forced my muscles to relax. I tilted my head back slightly, leaning into his touch with a soft, practiced sigh.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Nico murmured, his cheek resting against mine. His tone carried that effortless, casual charm I had once found so comforting, but which now sounded like grating fingernails on a chalkboard. "You disappeared pretty early last night. I came back to my wing around midnight and your champagne glass was sitting empty on the hallway table."
"I got a terrible migraine around ten," I lied smoothly, turning my head to look directly into his brown eyes. I searched his face for a single sign of hesitation, a flicker of guilt, or a shadow of remorse. There was nothing. Just the bright, arrogant satisfaction of a man who believed he held the world on a string. "I didn't want to bother you, so I took some medicine and slept in the third-floor guest room."
"Ah, my sweet girl," Nico smiled, reaching out to run his thumb over my bottom lip. "Always thinking about my comfort. You're too good to me, Myra. Listen... Chloe is coming over around noon. She mentioned wanting to take you down to Fifth Avenue to look at formal gowns for the Winter Solstice Gala."
"Did she?" I asked, taking a calm, deliberate sip of my tea. "How thoughtful of her. She really is such a dedicated friend."
"The best," Nico chuckled, stepping over to the silver espresso machine on the far counter. "Oh, before I forget... my father asked us to join him for dinner in his private dining room tonight. Just the three of us. He said we need to review the final trust documents before the board meeting next Tuesday."
"Really?" I feigned mild surprise, raising an eyebrow. "Mr. Casaro usually prefers to eat alone in his study."
"Well, the old man is finally accepting reality," Nico said with a dismissive wave of his hand as the machine hissed. "He knows he can't manage the port expansions without me anymore. The board trusts my modernization plan. Once those trust papers are signed on my birthday... you and I are taking a two-month trip to the Amalfi Coast. Just you, me, and a private yacht."
To Amalfi, I thought, keeping my expression perfectly placid. Paid for with the ten thousand dollars you won taking bets on my virtue.
"That sounds like a dream, Nico," I purred softly.
At precisely twelve o'clock, the main entrance chime echoed through the foyer.
I walked down the hallway and opened the heavy front door myself. Chloe Vance stood on the stone porch, looking like the picture-perfect image of upper-class elegance. She wore a tailored camel coat, designer leather boots, and held two iced lattes in green paper cups.
"Myra!" Chloe squealed, throwing her free arm around my shoulders in a tight, affectionate hug.
I held my breath as her arms wrapped around me, catching the faint, undeniable scent of Nico’s expensive sandalwood cologne lingering on the velvet collar of her coat. She hadn't even bothered to change or wash before coming back to his house.
"I brought your favorite—vanilla oat milk latte!" Chloe gushed, stepping into the foyer and pulling back to inspect my face with sharp, calculating eyes. "Nico texted me saying you had a migraine last night. Are you feeling any better, sweetie? You look a little pale."
"Just a bit overwhelmed with the Gala preparations," I smiled, stepping aside to let her glide past me into the house. "Nico is so anxious about everything being perfect. You know how much his twenty-fifth birthday means to his position in the company."
"Oh, I know," Chloe said, a flash of toxic, secret amusement dancing in her eyes as she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Trust me, Myra. It’s going to be a night no one in this house ever forgets."
We spent the next two hours upstairs in my dressing room. Chloe pulled lavish designer gowns from the velvet racks, holding fabrics against my chest, offering opinions on cuts and colors, playing the role of the loving, supportive best friend to absolute perfection.
"You know, Myra," Chloe said casually as she stood behind me, helping me zip up a fitted emerald green silk gown. "Nico is so incredibly lucky to have met you. Most of the girls in our social circle are so demanding and high-maintenance. But you... you're so modest. So easy to keep happy. So grateful for everything he gives you."
"I have every reason to be grateful," I said, watching her reflection in the full-length gilded mirror as her fingers pulled the gold zipper up my back. "Nico stepped in when my father was dying. He paid for everything. I owe his family my father's life."
Chloe’s hands paused on my waist for a fraction of a second. In the reflection, I saw her lips curve into a small, cruel, pitying smile that she made no effort to hide.
"That's so sweet," Chloe whispered, stepping back and clasping her hands together. "Unconditional gratitude. It really is a rare thing these days."
Before I could answer, the dressing room door clicked open.
Leo Casaro stepped into the room.
He was dressed in a pristine charcoal three-piece suit, a dark burgundy tie secured at his throat. His presence instantly altered the energy of the room, compressing the air into a heavy, silent stillness.
Chloe froze instantly, her shoulders locking up, her eyes widening as she dipped her head in immediate, instinctive deference. Her father was a high-ranking investigator in the DA's office; she understood precisely what kind of power Leo wielded.
"Mr. Casaro," Chloe said quickly, her voice dropping its casual tone. "Good afternoon. I was just helping Myra try on dresses for the Gala."
Leo didn't acknowledge her existence. His cold gray eyes looked past her, fixing directly onto my reflection in the mirror.
"The green is too forgiving, Myra," Leo said, his deep voice filling every corner of the room. "Wear the navy silk tonight for dinner. I have invited your father to join us."
Chloe gasped softly, her head snapping up. "Frank Miller is coming here tonight?"
Leo finally shifted his sharp gaze toward Chloe, examining her with the cool, clinical detachment one might reserve for an unwanted insect on a windowsill.
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"Frank Miller is a honored guest in this household, Miss Vance," Leo said softly, his tone carrying an underlying warning that sent a visible chill down her spine. "Which is considerably more than I can say for unexpected visitors who linger in my private hallways after dark."
Chloe’s face drained of every ounce of color.
