The dining room still carried the faint warmth of breakfast—coffee lingering in the air, the sweet ghost of bourbon syrup, the quiet clink of porcelain that had been cleared away by silent hands. Eloise sat alone at the long oak table, the black card resting between her fingertips like a foreign object. Matte, weightless, limitless. She turned it over once, twice, watching the light catch the embossed edge.
No joy rose in her chest. No thrill of freedom or power. Only a quiet, stubborn ache.
She didn't want to depend on any man. Not even one who kissed her like she was oxygen, who marked her skin like a vow, who looked at her like she might be the only soft thing left in his world. She loved the way Luciano made her feel safe—cherished, even—but safety built on someone else's money felt like borrowed ground. One day the tide could turn, the ground could shift, and she'd be left standing on nothing.
In this life, if you didn't stand for yourself, no one ever would.
