Chapter 7. Fire and Ice

The villa was too silent—an absence so profound it felt alive. Even the wind beyond the tall windows had gone still, as if the ocean itself had drawn back to eavesdrop. In that hush, Alyssa’s stilettos rang out with deliberate authority, each strike upon the polished marble echoing down the corridor like a pistol shot. The sound was wrong here: too raw, too human. Her lungs caught on ragged breaths; her fingers curled into fists at her sides, knuckles blanching in the dim light. Fury still burned hot in her chest.

She moved past the guest wing without pausing. She skirted the gleaming gallery walls—surfaces so perfectly maintained they gleamed with curated sterility, like the hushed corridors of a museum sealing away something precious. Too clean, too composed—a tomb built for a man very much alive. The low hum of the under-floor heating, the soft click of her heels, the muted drip of shadows under sconces: all conspired to root her steps in this surreal quiet.

Alyssa di