Chapter 1
The glass-roofed conservatory of the Ravello estate was bathed in brilliant, cinematic sunlight. There was absolutely no yellow tint to the light; it was a pure, crisp white that illuminated the vibrant, saturated greens of the potted citrus trees and the polished silver of the rolling tea trolley. The air was cool and immaculately controlled. Seated around the decorative stone tables were members of the inner circle, their fair, rosy skin glowing with the picture-perfect complexion of American aristocracy. The serene atmosphere, however, was rapidly fracturing.
Three-year-old Mireya Ravello stood near the wicker seating area, her tiny hands clutching the chest of her elegant child’s dress. The fair-skinned little girl was struggling, her chest heaving as she fought to pull oxygen into her lungs.
"Mireya, sweetheart, look at grandma. Just breathe for me," Margaret Ravello said, her voice laced with rising panic. The seventy-two-year-old woman, dressed in a pristine blouse and tailored trousers, dropped her handbag onto a wicker chair and knelt on the sunlit tiles. Her rosy face was pale with genuine terror.
"I can't... Grandma..." Mireya wheezed, the crisp American accent breaking into a frighteningly shallow gasp. She patted the small, embroidered pouch hanging from her shoulder.
"For heaven's sake, Margaret, it's just a minor cough," Tove Mercer sighed, rolling her eyes. The thirty-nine-year-old woman sat elegantly on a padded bench, her engagement ring flashing under the bright glass roof. Her fair skin was flushed with annoyance. "You are completely overreacting. She just wants attention because Cullen is busy."
"She has severe asthma, Tove! This is a medical emergency, not a game!" Margaret snapped, her hands frantically searching the little girl's pouch. "Where is the inhaler? Mireya, did you drop it?"
Chase Mercer, Tove’s forty-two-year-old brother, leaned against a tiered ceramic planter stand. He adjusted his expensive wristwatch, his tailored suit shifting as he let out a cruel, dismissive chuckle.
"She's just acting up because her father isn't here to coddle her," Chase remarked, his American accent smooth and arrogant. "You Ravellos pamper your kids too much. If she were a Mercer, she’d be told to stop whining and take a deep breath."
"You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Chase!" Margaret yelled, her fingers finally closing around the plastic casing of the inhaler inside the pouch. "She cannot breathe! Her airways are closing!"
"Then maybe she shouldn't be running around a greenhouse," Tove muttered, standing up and smoothing her formal outfit. Her heels clicked sharply against the tile floor. "I swear, this family is entirely too dramatic for a Tuesday afternoon."
"I have it, sweetheart, Grandma has it," Margaret assured the gasping child, pulling the inhaler from the pouch. "Just open your mouth, Mireya."
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Mireya looked up, her rosy cheeks turning a terrifying shade of blue. "Help... please."
Before Margaret could bring the mouthpiece to the child's lips, a shadow fell over them. Tove’s high heels stopped directly beside the kneeling grandmother, her posture radiating venomous impatience.
