"Sold to pay a seventeen-million-dollar debt, she ran barefoot into the pouring rain—and climbed into the car of her groom's most dangerous enemy."

When the black Mercedes pulled under the grand portico, Marcus hurried around to open the door.

Elena stepped out, wincing as her bare, blood-stained feet touched the cold stone steps. Before she could take a second step, Luca was already there. Without a word of warning, he swept her up effortlessly into his arms, carrying her bridal-style across the threshold and into the grand marble foyer.

“Mr. Moretti, put me down, I can walk—” Elena protested, a sudden flush of heat rising to her cheeks.

“Quiet, Elena. You’re tracking blood on my imported Italian tiles,” Luca teased lightly, though his grip remained steady and gentle. He carried her up the sweeping double staircase down a long, dimly lit hallway lined with dark oil paintings of previous Moretti patriarchs, until he reached a sprawling guest suite overlooking the lake.

He set her down gently on the edge of a massive four-poster velvet bed.

“Stay here,” Luca instructed, turning toward the door. “I’ll have Mrs. Gable bring up a medical kit for your feet, along with some warm clothes that actually fit. We have a lot to discuss, but you won’t be doing any strategizing with infected cuts.”

Before Elena could answer, he walked out and closed the door softly behind him.

Ten minutes later, an elderly woman with kind eyes and silver hair tied in a neat bun entered the room carrying a tray of steaming tea, antiseptic ointments, and a bundle of soft cashmere clothing. Working with practiced efficiency, Mrs. Gable cleaned the gravel and dirt from the soles of Elena’s feet, bandaged them securely, and helped her change out of the ruined wedding gown into a comfortable charcoal-gray cashmere sweater and black leggings.

By the time Elena walked downstairs—moving slowly on her bandaged feet—she found herself standing outside the open double doors of Luca’s private study.

The room was vast, dominated by a massive mahogany desk, a roaring stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Luca stood by the window holding a glass of scotch, watching the violent waves of Lake Michigan crash against the rocky shore below.

A laptop sat open on the desk, the screen glowing with the contents of the flash drive Elena had given him.

“You weren't bluffing,” Luca said without turning around, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room.

Elena stepped further inside, wrapping her arms around her sweater. “I don't bluff when my life is on the line. The files on that drive link Damian directly to the municipal zoning fraud in the financial district. If you leak those to the federal prosecutors anonymously while routing the financial trails through your own legal channels, Damian’s construction licenses will be revoked by the end of the week.”

Luca turned around, taking a slow sip of his drink. He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. His slate-gray eyes examined her with a mixture of respect and intense curiosity.

“And your father?” Luca asked quietly. “Arthur Vance is tied to every single one of these shell corporations. If I release this data, your father goes down right alongside Damian.”

Elena didn't flinch. She met Luca’s gaze with absolute, unyielding coldness.

“My father sold me for seventeen million dollars,” Elena said, her voice devoid of any remaining filial affection. “Let him rot in a federal penitentiary. He stopped being my father the moment he locked those chapel doors.”