The grand corridor of the Salvatore estate remained thick with a suffocating, residual tension. The air felt charged, as if a lightning strike had just missed the foundations, leaving only the smell of ozone and the ringing in one's ears. Elizabeth Salvatore, ever the diplomat and mistress of the house, smoothed her silk robes and turned toward a nearby attendant with a warm, practiced grace.
"Go and summon Victoria," she commanded, her voice carrying the soft lilt of maternal expectation. "She should be the first to truly welcome her husband home. Matthew has returned, after all, and a wife's place is by his side at such a moment."
The servant bowed low, the movement crisp and immediate, before hurrying away toward the master suite.
The moment the words left Elizabeth's lips, the atmosphere shifted. Luna Salvatore, who had been glowing with a radiant, almost feverish joy at her brother's sudden arrival, felt her expression calcify. The bright, eager smile stiffened into a porcelain mask of resentment. A sharp, green flash of jealousy flickered in her eyes, as hot as a brand.
Victoria. The name tasted like ash in Luna's mouth. Her fingers curled into tight, pale fists at her sides, the nails biting into her palms. The thought of that delicate, fragile interloper receiving the first of Matthew's attention was a bitter pill she was not prepared to swallow.
Matthew, however, remained a pillar of unyielding stone. He reached up, adjusting the stiff cuff of his military uniform with a slow, methodical precision that suggested a mind already focused on a far more grim objective. His voice cut through the air, steady and devoid of the warmth his mother expected.
"No."
The word was a gavel strike. Every head in the corridor turned toward him, surprised by the abruptness of the refusal.
"I am going to my room," Matthew stated, his gaze level and cold. "I will meet her there."
His tone was a fortress—solid, impenetrable, and leaving no room for maternal suggestions or sisterly protests. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel. His boots clicked a rhythmic, predatory cadence against the marble as he strode toward the private wing that housed his bedroom.
His steps were measured and controlled, the gait of a man who had already won the battle before the first shot was fired. His mind was a tactical map, replaying the images provided by his shadow: the discarded rope by the southern wall, the charcoal grey of the servant's dress, and the desperate, veiled figure he had just encountered in the hall.
He knew exactly what she had been doing. And he knew exactly how the night would end.
Inside the master bedroom, the door clicked shut, and Elva collapsed against the wood, her lungs burning as she finally allowed herself to breathe. Panic, cold and visceral, clawed at her throat.
"Oh no… oh no…" she whispered, the words lost in the heavy drapes of the room.
She scrambled toward the massive mahogany wardrobe, her hands trembling so violently she could barely grip the handles. She flung the doors open, her eyes darting frantically across the interior. There were her gowns—silk, satin, and velvet in shades of cream and gold. There was her jewelry, glinting mockingly in the dim light. But the one thing she needed was missing.
Her original dress which she was wearing this morning.
Her breathing hitched, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. Then, the realization hit her like a physical blow. The storage room. The maid. In her haste to transform into a ghost, she had left her identity behind. The maid had taken Elva's gown to hide it, but that meant the evidence of her status was still sitting in the servants' wing, while she was standing here in the rags of a laborer.
If she stayed like this, the deception was over. If a servant arrived to summon 'Victoria' and found the room empty—or worse, found a maid in the Young Madam's bed—the entire house would wake to her betrayal.
She had only one choice, and it was a suicide mission. She had to go back. She had to navigate the corridors again, retrieve her clothes, and return before Matthew reached the door.
Wrapping the linen cloth tighter around her face until only her wide, terrified eyes were visible, she peeked into the hallway. It looked deserted, a long stretch of shadows and silence. Taking a breath that felt like her last, she slipped out and began a frantic, silent sprint toward the servants' corridor.
She was a shadow moving through a tomb, unaware that the master of the tomb was already at the gate.
The corridor outside the master suite was a vacuum of sound. Matthew reached the heavy oak doors, his hand extending toward the brass handle. But before his fingers could make contact, the door swung inward.
Elva stepped out, her head down, her frame shrouded in the drab charcoal dress and the white veil. The sudden sight of the dark military uniform, the polished silver buttons, and the sheer, overwhelming proximity of the man she feared most sent her heart into a freefall.
Matthew.
For a split second, the world stood still. The smell of cold rain and iron that clung to him filled her senses. Terror, sharp and paralyzing, told her he would recognize her instantly—that the veil was made of glass.
Acting on raw, desperate instinct, she dropped into a deep, subservient bow, tucking her chin into her chest. She remained silent, a nameless servant hoping to be overlooked, praying to the gods of the house that he would simply stride past her without a second glance.
But Matthew Salvatore did not walk past.
His eyes moved with agonizing slowness over her small, trembling form. He took in the rough fabric of the dress, the frantic rise and fall of her chest, and the way she shrunk away from his shadow. His jaw tightened, a hard line appearing in his cheek.
Without a single word of warning, Matthew moved.
He bent down with the fluid power of a predator. Before Elva could even gasp, his arm—as unyielding as a band of iron—wrapped around her waist. He hoisted her up effortlessly, the strength of the movement knocking the wind from her lungs.
In one swift, blurred motion, he threw her over his broad shoulder.
"Matt—!"
The sound was cut off as her stomach hit his shoulder. Shock vibrated through her entire body. She began to struggle instantly, her small fists thudding against the heavy wool of his back, her body writhing in a frantic attempt to break his grip.
It was like trying to move a mountain. Matthew's hold was a vice, his large hand pinning her legs so she couldn't kick.
She wanted to scream, to shriek for help, but the logic of the trap held her tongue. If she made a sound now, if she alerted the guards or the family, they would see the 'servant' in the master's arms was the Young Madam. The scandal would be her final undoing.
She struggled in a suffocating, terrifying silence. She could feel the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart against her side, a stark contrast to the frantic drum in her own chest. He didn't say a word. He didn't even grunt at the effort. He simply turned, walked back into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut behind them.
The click of the lock sounded like the closing of a tomb.
He carried her to the center of the room, near the great silken expanse of the bed, and finally set her down. He didn't place her on her feet; he dropped her onto the mattress. Elva let out a small, startled gasp as she landed on the soft surface, her hair spilling out from the headwrap.
Before she could scramble away, Matthew was there, his tall figure looming over her, blotting out the light of the room. His shadow stretched across her, cold and inescapable.
Slowly, his hand reached forward. His fingers gripped the edge of the linen cloth covering her face. With one sharp, violent motion, he tore the veil away.
The fabric fluttered to the floor like a fallen wing. Her face was revealed—pale, trembling, and etched with a raw, naked panic. Her dark eyes were wide, fixed on his with the look of a deer beneath the blade.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the uneven rhythm of Elva's breathing.
Matthew's cold blue eyes locked onto hers, burning with a dark, dangerous clarity. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, terrifyingly calm rasp.
"So…" he began, the word dripping with a lethal irony. "Are you trying your hand at servant work now?"
His gaze moved over her, hard and unforgiving. "You were carrying ropes through the gardens. You were mapping the servants' wing in the dead of night." His jaw tightened, the muscle leaping. "And you truly believed I wouldn't notice? That my house was a sieve you could simply slip through?"
Elva's fingers curled into the silk bedsheets, her knuckles turning white. She couldn't look away from the glacial fire in his eyes.
Matthew leaned closer, his presence a suffocating weight. His voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a blade against her throat.
"You were escaping."
It wasn't an accusation; it was a verdict. He didn't need her confession.
"Were you truly planning to run away from my house, Elva? Did you think you could take what belongs to a Salvatore and simply disappear?"