Chapter 17: Isn’t Me

Present

“I survived. That doesn’t mean I lived.”

The sting came first.

Sharp. Deep. Thread pulling through skin.

I opened my eyes to the soft hiss of antiseptic and the weight of a cold compress against my ribs. The chandelier above me wasn’t from the ballroom — smaller, flickering slightly. The curtains drawn. Dim light creeping through linen. I was in the east wing.

Still alive.

Unfortunately.

“Don’t sit up.”

Luna’s voice. Clipped, but quiet. She stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, looking like she hadn’t slept in days. There was dried blood at the corner of her shirt.

My blood, probably.

I shifted and winced. Bandages pulled tight around my waist, arm in a sling. I had vague flashes of screaming, smoke, steel slicing air — and then… silence.

“Where’s Dante?” I asked, throat dry.

“Safe,” Luna muttered. “Not that you care.”

I let the words sit between us. I wasn’t ready to lie yet.

“They were targeting him,” she added. “That’s what they’re saying, at least. But you were the one bleeding.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Would’ve been a waste if it was the other way around.”

Luna didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk.

She stepped closer, dropping a glass of water on the nightstand beside me. “They stitched you up like paper, Aria. And you were lucky. Two inches closer and you’d be ash next to your mother.”

My fingers curled into the sheets.

“Vittorio is calling it a declaration of war,” she continued. “He’s pulling troops. And planning a wedding.”

I blinked. “Still?”

“He wants it fast-tracked now. Says it’ll ‘reassure alliances.’ Says the bloodshed proves the need for unity.”

Of course he does.

Because power means more to him than people ever will.

Because he never loved anyone enough to mourn them.

“Tell him to go to hell,” I muttered.

“Already did. Didn’t work.”

I closed my eyes, letting the ceiling blur. My body ached. My lungs felt bruised. But none of it compared to the clawing in my chest — the part of me that kept asking one question on loop.

Was it him?

The man in the smoke. The blade. The gun. The voice I hadn’t heard in years, except in dreams.

But dreams didn’t yank you behind marble columns.

Dreams didn’t smell like gunpowder and blood.

Dreams didn’t look at you like they hated themselves for still caring.

I felt it. When our eyes met through the haze.

It had been Silas.

It had to be.

“Aria,” Luna said again, lower this time. She walked over and sat beside me, her voice dipped in something rare — worry. “Who was that man? The one who pulled you behind the column?”

I hesitated.

My mouth opened.

But the lie came out before I could stop it.

“It wasn’t him. He’s dead.”

She froze.

Stared at me.

And I hated how good I’d gotten at lying.

I forced a small shrug. “Someone the guards hired, probably. A freelancer. I didn’t see his face.”

Luna’s gaze searched mine. For cracks. For truth. She didn’t find either.

But I was trembling inside.

I turned my face away before she could press.

Later that night, after everyone left, I stood in front of the mirror again — the same one from three years ago. Same earrings. Same shade of lipstick.

But the girl staring back at me looked nothing like her.

I survived.

That doesn’t mean I lived.

I’d buried my mother. Buried the girl who loved in secret. Buried every softness inside me just to carry a name that never loved me back.

And now, I was the one they bowed to. Aria De Luca. Head of the table. Sole heir.

But power never kept me warm.

It never held my hand when I broke.

It never whispered I’ll come back.

I stared at my reflection and whispered what I hadn’t dared say out loud in three years.

“Come back, Silas.”

But mirrors don’t echo.

And dead men don’t write back.

The next morning, I woke before the sun did.

No guards. No Luna. No Dante. No permission.

Just me.

And the ache in my chest that hadn’t left since that night three years ago.

I told the driver I wanted to go alone. He insisted. I ignored him. I left before he could get the car ready.

The old black sedan still started like it remembered me.

The cemetery was two towns over — where no De Luca flags flew, where no one whispered my name like a threat or an heir. The path was overgrown, untouched. The gates still creaked the same way they did that night we buried her.

I parked just outside the wrought-iron fence and walked the rest of the way.

She didn’t have a mausoleum. No marble. Just a quiet stone, cracked at the edge, her name barely visible beneath the weather stains.

Luciana Arista De Luca

Beloved mother. Devoted friend.

I hated that it didn’t say more. She was more.

I sank to my knees, fingers grazing the stone like I could still feel her pulse beneath it.

It took minutes before I could breathe again. It took longer to speak.

“You were right,” I whispered, voice shaking. “You were right about him. About me. About what this world does to women like us.”

The wind picked up — soft, dry. I closed my eyes and tried to remember her laugh.

“I lost myself the day I lost you.”

My voice cracked then. And I let it.

No cameras. No soldiers. No need to pretend.

I broke there — for the first time in years. My fists curled in the dirt, my shoulders shaking so hard I could barely keep upright. I sobbed into my palms. Ugly. Loud. Like I was nineteen again and still waiting for her to come home.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I choked. “I hate this crown. I hate this blood. I hate that I still dream about someone who left without saying goodbye.”

A bird flew past. A branch creaked.

But the grave stayed quiet.

Like it was listening.

Like she still was.

I don’t remember how long I stayed. But when I finally stood and kissed my fingers to press them against her name, I felt… lighter.

Still broken.

But less alone.

I got back in the car.

Turned the ignition.

Nothing.

Weird.

I tried again.

Then instinct kicked in.

Something in my stomach flipped — the kind of flip that saved your life when bullets started flying.

I threw the door open and jumped.

I didn’t get far.

BOOM.

The blast sent me flying into the dirt. The shockwave knocked the breath out of my lungs. My ears rang. Heat scorched the side of my face.

The old sedan was on fire.

Metal screamed as it curled.

Glass shattered across the grass.

I didn’t move right away. Couldn’t. Smoke filled my nose. I coughed hard, crawling back to my knees, dizzy and deafened.

Someone had rigged my car.

Someone wanted me dead.

Again.

\[Silas’ POV — Rooftop, Distant View\]

From the edge of the old church roof, I saw the fire before I heard it.

It lit the sky like a second sun — black smoke pouring into the air like a curse finally released.

I didn’t breathe.

Not until I saw her — crawling.

Not burned. Not broken. Just…

Shaking.

My fingers curled tighter around the binoculars, jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a molar. My heart didn’t race. It hammered. Violent. Unrelenting.

She wasn’t supposed to be there alone.

She wasn’t supposed to still grieve like that.

And someone tried to take her from me again.

I exhaled through my nose. Slow. Controlled. Rage twisted in my chest like it had teeth. Like it had a name.

I’d killed for less.

I’d burned men alive for less.

They’re getting closer.

And I was running out of reasons not to make it personal.