Chapter 13
"Private jets are my thing. I hate flying with everyone except you," Sanaa giggled as she ruffled my hair, her eyes glued to the window.
I shook my head, the memory fading and dragging me back to reality.
The private jet hummed beneath me, slicing through clouds like it knew I didn't have time to feel.
I sat by the window, one leg crossed over the other, dressed in the outfit from the final box: black silk shirt, high-waisted trousers, sleek boots. My curls were pinned back, exposing the tattoo just above my collarbone.
"Miss Versace, would you like a drink?"
"No," I replied, eyes still trained on the clouds. "Just peace."
The flight was short. Or maybe time had stopped.
The pilot's voice crackled gently through the speaker.
"Estimated arrival in Milan: forty-five minutes."
I nodded to no one, my fingers tracing the gold embroidery on the seat's armrest. A family crest. My family crest.
Versace.
For years, the name felt like a curse. Now it felt like a weapon I was finally ready to wield.
By the time we landed in Italy, the sun was just beginning to kiss the vineyards.
A row of black vehicles waited at the edge of the tarmac, polished and lined like soldiers. The driver stepped out first. I recognized him: old, greying, loyal.
He bowed. "Miss Versace Versace. We've waited a long time for this day. Welcome home."
I gave a small nod. "Let's go."
Silence.
Then…
"Welcome home, Miss Versace." Dozens of voices in perfect harmony.
I exhaled, folding my shivering fingers. "Prepare the halls. I want every file from the last three years on my desk by sundown."
The butler nodded sharply. "Yes, Miss Versace."
I began walking up the marble steps, the weight of a legacy finally feeling like armour instead of chains.
The estate hadn't changed.
Marble pillars. Ivy trailing the balconies.
A phoenix rising with a snake curled at its talons—rebirth, legacy, power. It was the crest of House Versace still carved into the double doors. Familiar.
The doors opened as I stepped out of the car, and as I walked in, a wave of nostalgia hit me like perfume from the past.
And there she was. My mother.
Ms Allura Versace.
She stood tall in a deep plum robe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The woman who raised me. The woman I ran from. My mother in every way that mattered.
She tilted her head. "So, the prodigal daughter returns."
I didn't blink. "Don't get too excited."
She smirked, the corner of her lip twitching like she wanted to roll her eyes and drag me into the kitchen all at once.
"You've grown. Look at you, walking in here like you didn't ghost your own mother for three years."
"You threw a glass at my face before I left," I said coolly. "Let's not pretend this was one-sided."
She raised a brow. "And yet you're still prettier than ever. Shame that attitude didn't age out."
"It's not my fault I resemble you in every way, Mother."
We stood in silence for a beat.
She softened, just a fraction. Her voice dropped an octave. She stopped three steps from the bottom, arms still crossed, head tilted slightly.
"You've finally decided to stop pretending you're normal."
I didn't smile. I didn't blink. "I've decided to stop running."
There was a quiet pause.
Then, her tone shifted. Sharp. Curious. "What made you change your mind?"
I didn't hesitate. "Sanaa died."
The words dropped like stone.
She flinched slightly and looked away. Then she looked back. Her posture eased.
I didn't move.
We stood face to face.
No emotion.
Just grief, fury, and legacy sitting heavy between us.
No apology. No dramatic sobs. Just a quiet step forward.
And a hug.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Took you long enough."
I stepped closer, the same marble floors I once stormed out of now echoing beneath heels I didn't flinch in.
"I'm not here to play the perfect daughter with you," I said, voice low. "I'm here to lead."
Her smirk deepened. "Good. Because I didn't raise a child. I built an empire. And now it's yours to hold... or destroy."
We stared at each other, two storms across the same battlefield. No apologies.
Only power. Legacy. Blood.
"Welcome home, Versace."
Not warm. Not desperate. Just real and familiar. Her arms were around me like they never left.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly against my hair.
I didn't answer. I just closed my eyes and let her hold me for the first time in three years.
It was evening when I walked down the stairs for dinner. My eyes widened at the sight.
All the staff stood around the long table, decorated with my favourite foods and treats, and there, in the centre, stood Mother.
"W-what is this?"
"Everyone was so excited to welcome your back. They prepared all this for you. They begged to have this dinner with you."
My heart—just a piece of it–-warmed. I descended the stairs fully, taking my seat beside her.
"Thank you all for this elaborate welcome. I am here to stay, and I hope you all are too."
"Welcome home, Versace."
They clinked their glasses, voices bright, and we sat down together to enjoy dinner.
My plate had saffron risotto and roasted lamb, the same meal I once told Sanaa I missed from home. She tried making it for me once.
She burnt it all. And we had burnt dinner that night.
I bit my cheek and forced the food into my mouth.
"Don't forget your crown, Habibi."
Her voice echoed in my head. And I munched.
I raised my head, watching as everyone laughed and ate. The bodyguards, the kitchen staff, the housekeepers. People who remembered me, who waited for me.
So, this was how it felt to have somewhere you could run to when there was trouble.
Too bad.
Sanaa used to be that somewhere.