Chapter 1
The glass-roofed conservatory of the Ravello estate was flooded with brilliant, cinematic light. There was no warm filter to the afternoon, no artificial yellow or orange tint; the sun poured in as pure, crisp, and white as freshly cut diamonds. The natural light illuminated the lush green citrus trees, the tiered ceramic planter stands, and the fair, rosy skin of the people inside. It was a space designed for tranquility, yet the air was suddenly suffocating, choked by a sudden and vicious cruelty.
Three-year-old Mireya dropped to her knees on the pristine tiled floor, her elegant little dress pooling around her. Her rosy cheeks had turned a terrifying shade of pale as she gasped desperately for air. Her small chest heaved, her tiny fingers clawing at the collar of her cardigan.
"Mireya! Oh, sweet heaven, hold on!" Margaret Ravello cried out. The seventy-two-year-old matriarch dropped her handbag, her comfortable shoes slipping slightly on the tile as she rushed forward. Margaret’s hands shook as she fumbled with the small pouch clipped to her granddaughter’s cardigan, trying to free the life-saving inhaler.
Before Margaret could bring the plastic mouthpiece to the little girl’s lips, a hand shot out like a striking viper.
Tove Mercer, thirty-nine years old and dressed in an immaculate formal outfit, violently snatched the inhaler directly out of Margaret’s hand. The massive diamond engagement ring on Tove's finger caught the stark white sunlight as she casually tossed the inhaler away. It skittered across the floor, coming to a halt deep beneath a heavy decorative stone table.
"What are you doing?!" Margaret shrieked, her American accent cracking with pure terror. She lunged toward the stone table to retrieve it.
Tove did not step aside. Instead, she planted her high heels, placed both hands on Margaret’s shoulders, and forcefully shoved the elderly woman backward. Margaret stumbled, her arms flailing, and crashed heavily into a woven wicker chair, gasping as the breath was knocked from her lungs.
Tove looked down at the wheezing child and the stunned grandmother. Her fair, flawless face twisted into a mask of pure, arrogant malice. She let out a sharp, cruel laugh that echoed off the glass ceiling.
"Stop encouraging her little performance," Tove sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "She does this every time she wants attention. I won't have a weak, spoiled brat ruining my afternoon. Let her cry it out."
"She can't breathe, you insane bitch!" Margaret yelled, struggling to push herself up from the wicker chair. "If she dies, my son will tear you to pieces!"
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"Your son is marrying me," Tove replied smoothly, brushing a piece of invisible lint from her sleeve. "He will do exactly what I tell him to do."
Mireya let out a ragged, silent wheeze, her vision blurring as her tiny hands pressed against the cold tile. The bright colors of the citrus trees began to fade into gray.
