Roman’s words hung in the warm, heavy air of the dining hall like drawn blades. “You would choose her over your own family?” Bianca repeated, her voice pitching higher, laced with disbelief.

Roman’s words hung in the warm, heavy air of the dining hall like drawn blades.

“You would choose her over your own family?” Bianca repeated, her voice pitching higher, laced with disbelief.

“She is my family,” Roman said softly. The tone wasn't loud, but it possessed a dense, terrifying weight. He did not blink. He did not adjust his posture. “And if you force me to draw a line between the woman who shares my bed and the people who share my blood, I promise you, Mother, you will not like where you find yourself standing.”

Bianca’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Beside her, several aunts leaned back into their velvet-upholstered chairs as if trying to merge with the woodwork. Uncle Mateo, Roman’s second-in-command on the shipping side of the business, cleared his throat loudly, staring down at his plate. Nobody dared to interrupt.

Hannah placed her soft, warm hand over Roman’s tense knuckles. He didn't drop his gaze from his mother, but his thumb moved reflexively, stroking the back of Hannah’s hand. The gesture was small, nearly invisible, yet it communicated a silent, unshakeable devotion that made Bianca’s eyes burn with fresh fury.

“Two hours, Hannah,” Roman whispered without looking down at her. “You said two hours.”

“One hour and forty-eight minutes now,” Hannah corrected gently. Her voice remained calm, a steady lighthouse in the middle of a gathering tempest.

“Then we sit,” Roman declared. He turned, pulled out the heavy oak head chair at the main table, and guided Hannah into it. He did not return to his own seat at the opposite end. Instead, he pulled up a side chair, sitting directly beside her, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

He glanced around the vast, silent table, taking in the twenty-three faces staring back at them. “Eat,” he commanded simply.

Nobody moved. Nobody picked up a fork.

“I said eat,” Roman repeated, his dark eyes sweeping over his cousins, uncles, and executives.

Forks began to clatter against fine porcelain. Hands shook as crystal wine glasses were lifted to pale lips. The room descended into a bizarre, surreal performance of a holiday dinner, underwritten by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

At the far edge of the table, Nicholas Vale took a small, careful sip of his cabernet. His expression was a masterclass in restrained sympathy, but Hannah noticed the slight twitch in his right cheek. Nicholas was Bianca’s favorite nephew—a sharp-minded, impeccably dressed corporate accountant who managed the treasury for several of the Duca family’s public foundations. He was the golden boy who always brought flowers to family luncheons and never forgot a birthday.

He was also the only person in the room whose eyes kept darting toward his inner suit pocket every time the grandfather clock struck a quarter-hour.

Hannah leaned back slightly, allowing her mind to do what it did best: organize chaos into patterns. She had spent ten years as a senior forensic auditor for one of the largest corporate oversight firms in the Midwest before meeting Roman. People often made the mistake of assuming that her soft curves, generous laughter, and warm demeanor meant she was easily overlooked.

They mistook kindness for weakness. They mistook silence for ignorance.

Six months ago, when Bianca had reluctantly allowed Hannah to oversee the digital compliance of the Duca Children’s Medical Foundation, Hannah had promised herself she would protect the charity with her life. It wasn't about proving her worth to the elitist Duca clan; it was about the thousands of sick children who depended on those funds.

Three days ago, a quiet flag had tripped in the foundation’s primary vault.

It wasn't an overt theft. It was an automated sweep—an offshore siphon engineered to look like a series of smaller, routine equipment purchases spread across six shell entities in Panama. The authorization key used belonged to Hannah. Someone had spent months cloning her digital credentials, patiently waiting for the holiday chaos to strike.

Instead of panicking, instead of running to Roman with unverified suspicions, Hannah had executed a counter-strike. She used her emergency administrative override to redirect the entire eight-million-dollar tranche into an escrow vault held by the Federal Financial Crimes Network’s independent auditing division.

She needed the regulatory board to issue the sealed forensic trace report before she made a single public accusation. That report, complete with IP logs, hardware MAC addresses, and digital signatures, was scheduled to be decrypted and sent to her secure mobile terminal at precisely 9:30 PM.

It was currently 8:12 PM.

“You’re quiet,” Roman’s low voice broke through her thoughts. He had tilted his head closer to hers, his shoulder brushing against hers.

“I’m watching,” she murmured back, keeping her eyes fixed on the centerpiece candles.

“He’s sweating,” Roman observed, his gaze casually drifting toward Nicholas.

Hannah offered a tiny, almost invisible smile. “You noticed?”

“I’m a Duca, sweetheart,” Roman said, a faint, dangerous humor lacing his words. “I notice when a rat starts looking for the nearest floorboard.” He shifted, resting his hand on her thigh beneath the table. His touch was grounding, heavy, and hot through the fabric of her green velvet dress. “Did you know he was doing it?”

“I knew someone was,” she whispered. “I didn't have the definitive paper trail until tonight. If I named him without the federal seal, your mother would have claimed I was framing her beloved nephew to cover my own tracks. She would have destroyed the foundation just to protect her pride.”

Roman’s grip on her thigh tightened slightly. “She hit you, Hannah.”

“She did.”

“I’m going to ruin him for that,” Roman said, his voice as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather. “Not just for the money. For forcing you to sit here and take that from her.”

“Roman,” Hannah turned her head, meeting his intense, dark eyes. “I don't need you to fight my battles. I need you to stand beside me while I finish this.”

Roman looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the red shadow fading on her pale, lovely cheek, but beneath it, he saw the unyielding steel that had made him fall in love with her in a crowded bakery two years ago. While other women tried to fit into the sleek, hollow mold his social circle demanded, Hannah had walked into his dark, violent world completely unbothered by its posturing. She didn't want his money. She didn't fear his name. She simply loved him.

“Always,” Roman whispered, leaning in to press a firm, lingering kiss to her temple.

A collective gasp rippled down the table. Bianca dropped her silver napkin onto her plate, her face twisted in pure disgust.

“Have you no shame?” Bianca snapped, her voice trembling with indignation. “Eight million dollars of charitable funds are missing under her watch, and you act like teenagers in a dark alley! Nicholas, call the firm’s lead counsel. I want an emergency freeze put on all of Hannah’s personal accounts tonight.”

Nicholas cleared his throat, setting his wine glass down. “Aunt Bianca, perhaps we should let Roman handle this internally—"

“No!” Bianca’s palm hit the table, making the fine china ring. “She has manipulated my son long enough. Look at her! She doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. She sits there in her oversized dress, acting like she owns this house!”

Hannah slowly lifted her chin. She stared directly at Bianca, her dark brown eyes clear and totally devoid of fear.

“My dress is a size 14, Bianca,” Hannah said, her tone smooth, pleasant, almost conversational. “And I don't need to own this house to know who built it, who maintains it, and who is currently trying to burn it down from the inside.”