Chapter 17
Peter handed me the envelope without a word and just stared at me like he was waiting to see if I’d crack. I didn’t. I slid my finger under the seal and opened it. Inside was a gold–invited file encrypted and coded, stamped with a name only whispered in black market air: S Gala and Auction. Anonymous, underground, deadly exclusive. Where weapons were dressed like art and heirs came cloaked in blood and silk.
“This is where he’ll be,” Peter said, low and blunt. “The dons. The snakes. The puppeteers who think they’re gods. Including Harvick.”
I kept my eyes on the paper. “Is it confirmed?“”
Peter nodded once. “His name’s not on the list, but that kind of man doesn’t need it. He’ll come when the air reeks of power and old sin.”
I breathed in slowly and closed the file. “Then it’s time.”
Peter didn’t smile. He just said, “All eyes will be on you. Including his. Make it count.”
I turned toward the window, watching the reflection of a woman I didn’t recognize anymore. “I’m not going there to be seen,” I said. “I’m going there to remind him what it means to lose something he thought he’d buried.”
That night, Peter’s elite team prepped me like I was going to war draped in beauty. The gown they brought me was blood red. Velvet. Off–shoulder. Deep cut like sin across my spine and chest. They curled my hair loose and sharp, gave me black diamond earrings, and painted my lips the color of revenge. I didn’t wear perfume. I wore silence. I wore the memory of his betrayal stitched into every hem.
They handed me the mask last–a red velvet lace piece that hugged only the top half of my face and let my mouth stay visible. I stared at myself in the mirror and saw Aria Velenza–the woman who let the world think she burned, just to return with gasoline in her veins.
I touched the mask gently and whispered to my reflection, “Tonight, I auction my body to remind him he never owned my soul.”
One of Peter’s men walked past and froze like he’d been struck. He didn’t speak for a second, then quietly said, “They’re gonna fall to their knees when you walk in, Miss Velenza.”
I smiled faintly and turned toward the exit. “Let them.”
Before I entered the venue, I silently watched Jeremiah from the balcony above the main floor. He was in black, tailored perfectly, no tie, no smile, just that scar beneath his eye and a stare that could break steel. He’s wearing his mask and didn’t move like a man hosting a gala. He moved like a predator watching his own trap tighten. He didn’t look at me, not even once–but I knew he was aware of me the whole time.
I took a breath and told myself not to blink.
The doors to the ballroom opened, and I stepped in like I owned it.
The scent of cigar smoke and vintage wine lingered heavy in the candlelit air. Crystal
4:51 pm
chandeliers glowed like halos dipped in blood. The walls were lined with oil paintings of
forgotten saints and warlords, and every man in the room looked like he belonged in a cage made of money and bodies.
And then I felt it.
The pause.
That sharp, silent shift.
The room turned. Eyes peeled from their overpriced champagne glasses and locked onto me. Every movement slowed. Every breath was held.
“Who the hell is she-”
2
“That dress… Velvetos signature, but not sold publicly-”
“Wait, is that… Aria Velenza? The new buyer from Nerona?”
“No way, that’s not just a buyer… look at the way she walks… like she’s here to collect a debt.”
“She moves like she ain’t afraid of nobody.“.
I kept my eyes forward and my chin high as I passed the murmurs, the stares, the fake smiles and loaded questions hiding in polished teeth. I didn’t looked for him yet. Not Harvick. Not them.
But I felt him.
The air got colder the moment he walked in.
I didn’t even need to turn to know it was him. His presence rolled through the room like a storm that pretended to behave but came with broken windows behind its back. He entered with Elodie beside him giggling, clinging to his arm like a fucking parasite dressed in couture. Lara followed two steps behind, her fake sympathy smile still etched on that face I used to believe was
kindness.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t shake. I just walked deeper into the room like none of them mattered
anymore.
Because they didn’t.
I could feel Harvick’s eyes lock on me.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. Not yet.
I reached the edge of the auction floor and let a server pour me a glass of whatever vintage rot they were handing out tonight. I didn’t sip. I held it like a prop. Like bait.
In the far end of the room, Jeremiah–Silenc3r–remained still, arms crossed, gaze cutting across every move Harvick made. I saw it then. This wasn’t just about business. This was chess. And I was the queen neither side expected to rise again.
I smiled faintly and whispered to myself, “Let the war begin.”
I was just meters away from the main auction floor when I felt it. His presence, thick and sharp, like static before lightning. I didn’t need to look to know he was coming. Harvick never walked through a crowd. He cut through it. Like a man who believed the whole damn room owed him their pulse.
I kept walking. I didn’t rush. I didn’t hesitate. I just let the red velvet of my gown sway behind me,
and I held my wine like a queen watching her old kingdom drown.
And then his hand grabbed my arm.
Firm. Not violent. But definitely not gentle.
“Danica…?” he breathed out like the word had been buried with me. His voice was low and rough, and I could feel the tremble in his hand even if he tried to mask it. “It’s you, isn’t it? Look at me. Say it.”
I turned slowly, and when our eyes met, his breath caught.
