Five weeks after giving birth to our son, I walked into my husband’s office carrying sixty luxury chocolate truffles and Noah strapped against my chest.

The Palazzo Reale blazed with chandeliers of Murano glass as hundreds of foreign dignitaries, European aristocrats, and corporate titans gathered in the grand ballroom. Silk dresses swished across marble floors; champagne flutes clinked beneath Baroque ceiling murals.

Yet underneath the glittering exterior, the air was thick with tension.

I entered the ballroom wearing an emerald-green gown cut with architectural precision, my shoulders square, my hair swept up in an elegant chignon secured by an antique silver hairpin shaped like a falcon. Noah was safely ensconced in the private royal nursery directly adjacent to the Grand Duke’s private quarters, guarded by Angela and four royal commandos with explicit orders to shoot anyone who approached without my personal biometrics.

As I descended the grand marble stairs, a hush rippled through the crowd.

Standing near the center of the hall, surrounded by a circle of sycophants and financial brokers, was a woman dressed in mourning black lace, dripping in pearls.

Eleanor Sterling.

Her face was gaunt, her makeup applied with surgical perfection to mask the bitter hollows of her cheeks. Her eyes locked onto mine with a venomous, unadulterated hatred that could have stripped paint from the walls.

She broke away from her entourage and walked slowly toward me, her champagne glass steady in her withered, manicured hand.

"Sophie," she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "You look remarkably composed for a woman who drove her own husband into a federal penitentiary."

"Eleanor," I answered calmly, holding my ground. "You look remarkably free for a woman whose name appears on fourteen offshore wire fraud indictments in the Southern District of New York."

Eleanor’s smile vanished, her lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. "You think you’ve won because you found an old key and a fairy-tale lineage? You are a common girl from Boston. You will never belong in these halls. Carter gave you everything—his name, his wealth, his prestige—and you stabbed him in the back the moment you birthed an heir."

"Carter gave me deceit, forged trusts, and attempted to steal my child before his umbilical cord had even healed," I retorted, stepping closer until only inches separated us. "And as for your prestige, Eleanor? Look around this room. The Grand Duke doesn't recognize your stolen offshore money. He recognizes the Castiglione blood. You are a ghost wandering through a kingdom that will never belong to you."

Eleanor leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "We shall see what the Grand Duke recognizes when your precious port project crumbles before midnight. You think Vance is here just to file injunctions? Look at the projection consoles, Sophie."

A chill raced down my spine.

I glanced toward the elevated dais where the large digital screens were set to display my firm's architectural master plan to the council.

Standing near the technical booth was a man in an engineer’s uniform, discreetly plugging an unauthorized flash drive into the sovereign network terminal.

They were not trying to out-argue me.