From the height of a stone balcony, Luna Salvatore surveyed the garden with the cold, predatory stillness of a hawk. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her silhouette sharp against the morning sun. Her eyes—dark and unforgiving—tracked the two figures moving along the winding stone path below.
Elva. And beside her, Louis Salvatore.
Luna's lips thinned into a hard, bitter line. "What exactly are you playing at, brother?" she whispered to the empty air. "And what are you doing with that woman?"
A flicker of genuine irritation surged through her. Louis was notoriously indifferent to the world, rarely deigning to show interest in anyone, let alone a woman. Yet here he was, personally escorting Matthew's new wife through the estate. The sight was not merely unusual; it was a provocation.
In the garden, the air felt thick with a tension Elva could no longer ignore. Louis's voice had dropped to a pitch that felt far too intimate, and his words—Anyone would find it difficult to look away from you—clung to her like a shroud.
The discomfort was visceral. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that demanded she flee. She took a deliberate step back, putting a few feet of safety between them.
"I think..." she began, her voice soft but laced with a sudden, firm resolve. "I think I am feeling quite tired now." She forced a polite, fleeting smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I really should go back and rest."
Before Louis could weave another web of words, she turned on her heel. She didn't wait for his permission. With the maid scurrying to keep up, Elva hurried back toward the sanctuary of the mansion, her footsteps echoing sharply on the stone.
Louis remained where he was, a solitary figure amidst the marble statues. He watched her retreat, his expression shifting from a smile into a mask of deep contemplation. It wasn't just shyness he saw in her. It wasn't even bridal modesty. It was a woman constantly, desperately, guarding herself.
Elva didn't slow down until she reached the heavy oak doors of Matthew's bedroom. She slipped inside and leaned against the wood, the silence of the luxurious suite finally allowing her to breathe.
But she was not as alone as she thought.
Deep within the bowels of the mansion, hidden in plain sight, another pair of eyes had cataloged her every move. This man was not a simple gardener or a mindless servant. He was one of Matthew Salvatore's most trusted assets—a man handpicked for his invisibility and his unwavering loyalty. His orders were absolute: watch Elva. Observe every conversation, every flicker of emotion, and every subtle calculation she made toward an escape.
Matthew Salvatore trusted no one—least of all a woman who had entered his life under a cloud of deception.
Later that evening, in a cramped office near the servants' quarters, the man sat beneath the guttering light of a single candle. He dipped a quill into a well of dark ink and began to scratch a report onto a slip of parchment.
> The Young Madam walked the estate today for nearly three hours. She appeared to be observing the layout and the perimeter with great care. Young Master Louis joined her for a duration of the walk. No escape attempt has been detected as of yet.
>
He folded the paper with practiced precision and pressed a glob of crimson wax onto the seam. In the Salvatore world, telephones were for trivialities. Sensitive intelligence traveled by hand, carried by private couriers who knew the price of a broken seal.
Morning broke cold and grey over the military base. The air was sharp with the scent of woodsmoke and the rhythmic thud of boots as soldiers drilled on the frost-covered plains. Commands barked out in the distance, cutting through the fog.
Inside the command center, Matthew Salvatore stood over a desk layered with maps and logistical reports. He wore his dark military uniform, the sharp tailoring emphasizing the broad, powerful set of his shoulders. His icy blue eyes were fixed on a strategic map, cold and analytical.
"Move the third unit to the eastern ridge," Matthew commanded, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
"Yes, sir," the officers replied in unison, saluting before turning to their tasks.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. A soldier entered, holding a small, sealed missive. "Sir, a courier has arrived from the mansion."
Matthew's focus shifted instantly. He recognized the seal. Without a word, he dismissed his staff with a curt wave of his hand. Once the room was silent, he broke the wax and unfolded the report.
His eyes scanned the lines. Observed the surroundings carefully. His jaw tightened. Louis accompanied her.
At that name, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Matthew's eyes darkened, a flash of something dangerous and possessive flickering in the depths of his gaze. He folded the letter slowly, leaning back into his chair as he stared out at the bleak horizon.
He had expected her to look for an exit; he had even counted on it. But Louis? Louis was an interference he had not invited.
His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the mahogany desk. Once. Twice.
"Interesting," he muttered, his voice a ghost of a threat.
Matthew Salvatore loathed two things above all else: betrayal and the meddling of others in his private affairs. If Louis was sniffing around what belonged to Matthew, the dynamics of the mansion were about to become far more volatile.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, his pen moving with swift, violent grace. He wrote only a few lines, ending with a command that left no room for error:
> Watch her even more closely. And keep Louis away from her by any means necessary.
>
As he sealed the reply, his blue eyes remained fixed on the window, cold and calculating. A dangerous thought had taken root in his mind, and it was only a matter of time before it bore fruit.