Chapter 54
It had been two months since I walked back through the iron gates of the House of Versace.
Two months since my memories had snapped back into place like shattered glass—sharp, jagged, and impossible to ignore.
Between the month I spent missing in that cold basement and the time spent recovering in the medical mansion, half a year had been stolen from me. Six months of my life had gone to shadows and blood.
The morning carried that deceptive calm the estate was known for. Sunlight spilled across the marble floors, and birds chirped somewhere in the gardens, pretending the world wasn’t built on foundations of violence.
I sat at my mahogany desk, tracing my reflection in the polished surface, watching the woman I had become. The Versace fire was back in my eyes, but beneath it, the scars remained.
A courier arrived without a word, breaking the stillness. He didn't speak. He simply bowed low, his eyes fixed on the floor, and handed me a small, ornate box. It was wrapped in heavy, dark paper, cool to the touch.
I raised an eyebrow, my heart giving a small, instinctive thud against my ribs. I slowly worked the lid open.
Inside was a dagger. Curved. Silver. The hilt was carved with intricate filigree that shimmered in the light, catching on the veins of my wrist as I turned it. The blade was perfect—balanced, lethal, beautiful.
A note lay folded beside it.
I saw this beauty in Spain, and I remembered there's a force back home it would pair perfectly with.
I hope you like it, Ara.
The corners of my lips curved slightly. Of course, he’d think of me when surrounded by weapons. I pulled out my phone.
Thanks for the dagger, old man. You've got taste.
The message lingered on the screen, then disappeared. I set the dagger down carefully, fingertips grazing the steel as if I could still feel Dominic’s touch on it.
"Miss Versace?" the courier whispered, still waiting.
"Dismissed," I said, my voice barely above a breath.
Mayami entered quietly, holding a tray stacked with papers and a steaming cup of coffee. Her gaze swept over me with that mix of concern and calculation that only she could pull off.
I picked up the cup of coffee. The scent brought on a wave of nausea when I raised it to my lips. I dropped the cup on the table heaving slowly.
The realization didn't come with a bang. It came with a slow, sickening crawl.
For the last few weeks, I had blamed the dizziness on the stress of the House. I blamed the sudden, sharp aversions to my favourite sandalwood candles on the lingering trauma of the basement. I told myself my body was still recalibrating.
But sitting at my desk with that dagger in my hand, the world suddenly tilted. The smell of the morning espresso Mayami had placed on the corner of the desk made my stomach turn with such violence I had to shove the cup away.
"Versace?" Mayami’s voice was cautious. She was watching me, her eyes tracking the way I was gripping the edge of the mahogany desk, my knuckles white. "You’ve been off since you got back. It’s been months. This isn't just the recovery."
"It’s the heat," I lied, though the room was perfectly chilled.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?” She asked as she picked up a calendar.
“What does that have to do with me being unable to stand the smell of coffee?” I thought back, searching my head for when I had my period. “It…it’s been a while.”
I frowned.
Mayami didn't buy it. She walked over, her face set in a hard, knowing line. She didn't say a word. She left the room and returned ten minutes later, sliding a plain pharmacy bag onto the desk.
"Take them," she commanded. "All of them. Just so we know."
I stared at the bag. I knew. Somewhere deep in my gut, I had known since the night by the river, but I had buried it under piles of paperwork and family feuds.
I went into the private bathroom connected to the study. My hands shook so much I nearly tore the packaging. One test. Two. Three. I didn't stop until six of them were lined up on the marble counter.
I didn't even have to wait the full three minutes.
Positive. Positive. Positive. The word stared back at me six times. A death sentence. A miracle. A disaster.
I felt the crash before I even realized I was moving. The calm composed Versace heir snapped.
The silence in the bathroom didn't last long. It couldn't. The weight of those six plastic sticks—all screaming the same truth—felt like a physical blow to my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs.
A raw, animalistic scream ripped from my throat, vibrating against the marble walls. I lunged at the vanity, my hands sweeping everything in sight.
The expensive crystal bottles of perfume shattered against the floor, filling the air with a suffocating, floral scent that made me want to gag. I didn't stop. I grabbed the heavy porcelain tray and hurled it at the mirror.
The glass exploded. A thousand jagged versions of my terrified face stared back at me for a split second before falling to the floor.
"No! No, no, no!" I sobbed, the words coming out as choked gasps.
I grabbed my hair, pulling at the roots as I slid down the wall, oblivious to the glass cutting into my palms. My mind was a storm of fire and ice.
Six months.
I had spent six months trying to claw my way back from the grave. I had fought to be the cold, untouchable heir again. I had stood up to Zorian. I had reclaimed my name.
And now, this.
A Moretti. I was carrying a Moretti. The very relative blood that had tried to drown me. The blood of the family that had kidnapped me—it was inside me. It was a part of me now.
The betrayal felt like it wasn't coming from the world anymore; it was coming from my own body.
"I can't!" I shrieked, slamming my fist against the floor. "I can't do this!"
The irony was a knife in my gut. Dominic’s gift—the dagger—was sitting outside that door.
He wanted to be my North, but he had left me with a permanent reminder of a night that was supposed to stay in the shadows.
I felt a violent wave of nausea and leaned over the toilet, retching until my throat burned.
My body was shaking so hard I thought my bones might snap. I felt small. I felt hunted. I felt like the girl in the basement all over again. Only this time, there was no way to run.
Mayami was pounding on the door, her voice a distant, muffled roar. "Miss Versace! Open the door! Talk to me!"
I didn't open it. I curled into a ball on the glass-strewn floor, my forehead resting against the cold tub. I looked at my stomach, my hand hovering over it like I wanted to shield it and rip it out all at once.
After a while of being in there, the door was thrown wide open. My mother, Allura, stood there with Asvika and Sanaa behind her. They didn't see the heir of the house. They saw a girl falling apart.
My mother’s eyes went from the broken mirror to the tests on the floor. She didn't scream. She didn't lecture. She walked through the glass, knelt down, and pulled my shaking hands into hers.
"Mom," I choked out, my voice breaking. "It’s a Moretti. Kashani's brother's family. I’ve ruined everything. The house, the name... it’s all gone."
My mother looked me dead in the eye, her grip firm. "Arabella, look at me. If you made this child with someone you love, why do you care so much what anyone else thinks? Do you think a name is stronger than life?"
"But the war—"
"The war will always be there," she snapped. "But you are my daughter before you are a Versace."
The moment was shattered when Sanaa stepped forward, her face pale and her voice trembling with a different kind of energy.
“Are you going.to. terminate it?” Sanaa asked, the question hanging in the air like poison.
My brows furrowed. I felt a coldness wash over the heat of my anger. “Why would you even ask me that?”
Sanaa snapped, her voice shaking. “Because everything about this is wrong, Versace! The timing. The danger. The life you live! Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out you're carrying the enemy's heir?"
The words hit harder than a slap. For a second, I just stared at her—my best friend, the person who once swore she’d die for me—and realized her anger wasn’t mere anger. It was terror. She was looking at me like I was already a dead woman walking.
“How could you be so reckless?” she yelled, slamming her fists against the marble vanity. "You’ve signed your own death warrant!"
“Sanaa?” Asvika’s voice, precise and cutting, finally sliced through the tension. “Enough.”
Sanaa whirled around, fury and heartbreak twisting her expression. “WHAT!”
“You’re a bad friend,” Asvika stated coldly. She stepped between me and Sanaa, her posture like a shield.
Sanaa’s expression twisted. “W—”
“Get the fuck out,” Asvika said. Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was sharp, final, and dangerous.
Sanaa blinked, the fight draining out of her all at once. She looked at me, her eyes glassy with something between anger and regret. Then she turned and ran out, slamming the heavy door behind her. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
My mother’s hand was steady as she wiped a smudge of dust from my cheek. I looked at her, my voice small, barely a whisper. “It’s Dominic’s. He…he...”
A faint, sad smile touched her lips. She didn't look shocked. “I know, Arabella. I’ve known since the moment you looked at him in that car. A mother doesn't miss the way her daughter looks at the man who fought to bring her back from the dead.”
She grew serious then, her eyes searching mine. “Do you want to keep this pregnancy?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the broken glass around us. I looked at her, my heart aching with a sudden, sharp fear. “Do you think I’ll be able to love them enough?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Enough so they don't turn out like me and you? Like this house?”