The room still smelled of gunpowder. Even though Alessia had changed her clothes, the faint metallic scent clung to her like guilt. She sat on the edge of her bed, the white bandage on her wrist glowing faintly in the low light — the same shade as his.
Her mind wouldn't stop replaying that moment.
The look in Lorenzo's eyes when she pointed the gun at him.
The stillness. The calm. The way he didn't even try to shoot her back.
She had expected hatred — not silence.
But what she got was confusion, warmth, and something terrifyingly close to mercy.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she whispered to herself,
"Why didn't he shoot me? Why… why do I feel this way? He's my father's enemy. I shouldn't."
Her gaze moved to her phone — no messages.
Nothing from the mysterious number that had filled her days with flowers, soft words, and fleeting warmth.
The silence hurt more than the sound of gunfire.
Just then, her father's heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. He pushed the door open with the same authority that ruled the Romano empire.
"Alessia," he said sharply. "What's wrong with you these days? You've been soft. Distracted. And you didn't sign the contract."
She didn't respond — just kept staring at the flowers on her table.
"I'm talking to you!" her father's voice rose. "Do you realize how much money we lost because of your carelessness? Give me the papers. I'll sign them myself."
Her voice came out soft but firm — laced with quiet rebellion.
"I trashed them, Daddy."
He froze.
"I run this empire now," she continued, standing to face him, her dark eyes steady. "Let me handle things my own way. Please don't make choices that will break us apart, Papa. You've done enough fighting for one lifetime."
Her father's jaw clenched — anger flickering and then fading as he looked into her eyes. For the first time in years, he saw his little girl again — not the cold-blooded heir he'd molded.
Finally, he exhaled. "Who keeps sending you those flowers and chocolates every day?"
Alessia turned back toward her desk, smiling faintly.
"Dad… I know you think I don't need that. But I'm a woman, Papa. I want to feel loved by someone. I want to live… not just survive."
"You mean I don't love you?" he asked, half hurt, half teasing.
She laughed softly. "No, Daddy. That's not what I mean. I mean… I need a man. Someone to share things with. To build something new. A queen needs her prince and her little princess, don't you think?"
Her father looked at her — and for the first time, his fierce expression softened. He reached for her shoulder, shaking his head. "I just hope you find love and peace, Alessia. Whoever's sending you all this, I hope he's worthy of you."
Before she could answer, a knock interrupted the moment.
"Miss," a servant said gently, holding out a white bouquet. "Your flowers just arrived."
Her father raised an eyebrow. "See what I mean?"
She giggled softly, walking over. "Told you, Papa." She took the bouquet — white lilies mixed with crimson roses, her mother's favorite.
Her father smiled faintly. "Those were your mother's flowers."
"I know," Alessia whispered, touching one of the petals. "Maybe… she sent them to remind me to love, not hate."
Her father sighed and placed a kiss on her forehead. "As long as you're happy, my daughter, I'll stand with you. But be careful — even flowers can have thorns."
When he left, Alessia sat back down and stared at the bouquet. A white ribbon was tied around the stems. Her heart skipped — it looked exactly like the band she'd seen on Lorenzo's wrist.
She froze.
Her phone buzzed.
A new message from the private number.
"Even warriors deserve to smile, my queen."
Her hands trembled. The room spun slightly.
Was it him? Could it be?
She looked down at the flowers again. The white ribbon glowed under the lamplight.
And for the first time since her mother's death, Alessia smiled — not out of victory, but out of something she couldn't yet understand.
Something dangerously close to hope.