Morning in the mafia estate did not feel like morning.
It felt like surveillance.
Tia woke before the servants arrived.
The silk sheets were too smooth. The silence too polished.
In her old life, mornings meant sunlight through thin curtains and the hum of traffic below her apartment.
Here, the world felt… curated.
Controlled.
Like every breath required permission.
She sat up slowly.
Last night wasn't a dream.
The chandelier above her was still crystal.
The lavender dress still folded neatly over the chair.
The memory of his eyes still sharp in her mind.
Cold.
Observant.
He had noticed.
"You look different."
That was dangerous.
In the novel, the fiancée was predictable. Soft-spoken. Timid.
Tia wasn't.
And unpredictability in a mafia empire?
Was either power.
Or a death sentence.
She stood and walked to the window.
Below, the estate stretched endlessly—guards at every gate, black vehicles parked in disciplined rows, men speaking in low tones.
This was not fantasy.
This was infrastructure.
Real power.
Real danger.
She closed her eyes and replayed the plot.
Chapter 5:
The right-hand man begins secret negotiations.
Chapter 12:
A rival gang plants a spy inside the estate staff.
Chapter 23:
The fiancée dies because she overhears something she shouldn't.
Her stomach tightened.
Not happening.
Not this time.
A knock came at her door.
"Breakfast, my lady."
Her voice emerged calm.
"Leave it."
Footsteps retreated.
She moved quickly.
She needed information.
In the novel, she never left her wing alone.
She obeyed.
She stayed safe.
And safety killed her.
Tia opened the wardrobe.
Rows of elegant dresses.
Too delicate.
Too ornamental.
She chose something simpler—dark, fitted, easier to move in.
If she was rewriting this story, she would not dress like decoration.
She stepped into the hallway.
Two guards immediately straightened.
"My lady."
Their eyes held confusion.
In the original story, she avoided eye contact.
Now she met their gaze evenly.
"I'm going for a walk."
One hesitated.
"The heir prefers—"
"I wasn't aware I required permission to breathe."
Silence.
They stepped aside.
Good.
Control begins in small moments.
Outside, the estate air was crisp.
She walked past the main courtyard toward the administrative wing.
In the novel, this was where the right-hand man operated.
The future traitor.
If she could destabilize him early—
The entire war shifts.
As she turned the corner—
She nearly collided with him.
Tall.
Polished smile.
Eyes too calculating.
"Lady Tia," he greeted smoothly.
There it was.
The man who would orchestrate her death.
He studied her carefully.
"You seem… lively this morning."
She tilted her head.
"And you seem nervous."
His smile thinned slightly.
Interesting.
She stepped closer.
Lowered her voice.
"Be careful who you make deals with."
His gaze flickered.
For half a second—
Fear.
She walked past him before he could respond.
Let him wonder.
Let him sweat.
Knowledge was leverage.
And she had all of it.
She didn't realize someone had been watching.
From the balcony above.
The mafia heir stood in silence.
Arms folded.
Eyes narrowed.
He had received a report at dawn.
His fiancée left her wing unescorted.
Confronted his right-hand man.
Spoke out of turn.
The girl he remembered from yesterday would never do that.
He disliked variables.
And she was becoming one.
He turned to his aide.
"Double the surveillance."
"On the estate, sir?"
His gaze remained on her retreating figure below.
"On her."
Tia felt it.
The shift in atmosphere.
The invisible net tightening.
Good.
Let him watch.
Let him question.
The more attention she drew—
The faster the script would unravel.
But she needed more than subtle warnings.
She needed allies.
And tonight—
She would begin Phase Two.
In the original novel, she stayed home.
Obedient.
Waiting.
Tonight?
She would leave.
And she would not ask.
The feeling of being watched was subtle.
It wasn't footsteps.
It wasn't shadows.
It was instinct.
Tia felt it the moment she stepped back into her room after her confrontation with the right-hand man.
The air felt tighter.
Quieter.
Calculated.
She walked to the mirror slowly and pretended to adjust her earrings. But her eyes weren't focused on her reflection.
They were scanning.
The corners.
The ceiling.
The vents.
And then she saw it.
A tiny red blink inside the smoke detector.
Almost invisible.
Almost impressive.
Her lips curved.
"So," she murmured softly, "you're watching."
Of course he was.
The mafia heir didn't like unpredictability.
And she had become exactly that.
In the original novel, the fiancée had never questioned him. Never stepped out of line. Never given him a reason to monitor her.
But Tia was not that girl anymore.
And she would never be that girl again.
"I won't make the same mistake twice," she whispered to herself.
Loyalty without power was weakness.
Trust without caution was self-destruction.
She had learned that in the worst way possible.
Her boyfriend's betrayal still burned in her chest like acid. Five years of devotion traded for someone richer. More seductive. More advantageous.
Fine.
If the world valued power over loyalty—
She would become powerful.
She opened her wardrobe.
Tonight, she would not sit in silk gowns waiting to be summoned.
Tonight, she would leave.
Not secretly.
Not shamefully.
Deliberately.
She chose a fitted black dress — elegant but sharp. Not ornamental. Not fragile.
She slipped on heels.
Looked into the mirror one last time.
The girl staring back at her was not broken.
But she was cracked.
And cracks let light — or darkness — in.
The estate gates opened without question when she requested a car.
She chose it herself.
A Ferrari 488.
Low.
Sleek.
Red like provocation.
The guards hesitated only slightly before handing over the keys.
If the heir was watching — and he was — he would know exactly what she was doing.
Good.
The engine roared to life beneath her.
For a moment, she felt something close to freedom.
The city lights blurred as she drove away from the estate. Neon signs. Crowded sidewalks. Music leaking from open doors.
She didn't go to a club immediately.
Instead, she parked outside an ice cream parlor glowing softly under warm yellow lights.
It was almost laughably normal.
She stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed.
The scent of sugar and vanilla filled the air.
She ordered two scoops.
Chocolate.
And something bitter-sweet she didn't recognize.
She sat alone at a small table near the window.
Across the street, the city moved on.
People laughed.
Couples walked hand in hand.
For a moment, her chest tightened.
How long could she hold this version of herself together?
How long before the broken girl inside her clawed her way out?
She took a spoonful.
Cold sweetness melted on her tongue.
Strange how something so simple could feel grounding.
But grounding was temporary.
Stability was illusion.
She finished both scoops.
Wiped her hands.
And stood.
Not home.
Not yet.