When the Mafia Don Begs for Her Forgiveness

It was her father’s birthday. The Moretti estate had opened its ancestral hall for the gathering—an old stone manor used less for celebration and more for business dressed as tradition. Under the vaulted ceiling and carved moon sigils, the city’s allied families had gathered in controlled clusters: syndicate heads, enforcers in tailored suits, lawyers who never asked where the money came from. Wine flowed, but no one got drunk enough to lose awareness. Nothing happened here by accident. Halfway through the ride, Lia shifted slightly in her seat. “I should at least bring him something,” she said quietly. “We can stop for a minute. I—” Rick didn’t look at her. “No,” he answered, firm. “Tonight isn’t about gifts. It’s about presence.” The car didn’t slow. No further discussion followed. ** When they arrived, Rick stepped out first. Men at the gate—armed security in discreet black suits with Moretti insignia pinned at the collar—straightened immediately. They didn’t question him. They never did. Valenti influence carried weight here. He gave a brief nod, already moving forward. “Go in,” he said to Lia without looking back. “I’ll handle the perimeter.” And just like that, she was left under the carved archway alone. Moretti estate. Moretti name. Moretti rules. Still, she felt like she was being evaluated the moment she crossed the threshold. ** Inside, the ancestral hall stretched wide and cold, more intimidating than welcoming. Marble floors polished to a dull shine. Long tables arranged for formal seating rather than comfort. Guards positioned along the walls pretending to be servants. Even the music—soft strings playing from a live quartet—felt staged. This wasn’t a family dinner. It was a display. Power always was. Then the atmosphere shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. Just a subtle tightening of attention. Bella Moretti entered with her usual precision—heels clicking softly, entourage behind her like a curated statement. She didn’t walk into rooms. She arrived in them. Her eyes landed on Lia immediately. “Well,” Bella said, voice carrying just enough. “You actually showed up.” A few people nearby chuckled under their breath. Lia didn’t respond. Bella’s gaze dragged over her outfit—simple, practical, no jewelry beyond a single ring, no visible status markers. “How… modest,” Bella added. “Did prison change your taste, or did they forget to return your allowance?” Another ripple of laughter. Someone behind Bella leaned in. “She still thinks she belongs here.” Bella smiled faintly, like she’d already won something. “You really should be careful, Lia,” she continued. “This room doesn’t forget reputation. And yours…” She tilted her head. “…is already fragile.” Lia’s expression didn’t move, but something in her eyes hardened. Bella stepped closer. “Father is in a good mood tonight,” she said softly. “Try not to ruin it.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “And don’t mention Mother. It makes people uncomfortable.” That was the wrong sentence. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just precise. Lia exhaled once. Then she slapped her. The sound cut clean through the hall. No echo of music. No background noise mattered anymore. Bella froze, hand slowly rising to her cheek. Shock came first. Then humiliation. Then anger. The room went silent in that immediate, dangerous way it always did when violence entered a controlled space. Lia didn’t raise her voice. “Do not speak about her again,” she said. A pause. Then, colder: “And remember where you are.” Bella’s eyes sharpened, almost shaking with rage. “You—” But Lia didn’t look at her anymore. Because she already knew what came next. Threats. Retaliation. Carefully dressed consequences. She had grown up inside this system. She knew its rhythm. ** Before anything could escalate, a new voice cut through the silence. “Lia.” Not loud. Not aggressive. Controlled. Familiar in a way that tightened the air instead of warming it. She turned. And saw him. Rick stood near the entrance now, having returned without her noticing. His expression wasn’t shocked. It wasn’t soft either. Just unreadable. Like he had already decided something before walking in. And that was worse than anger. Because in their world— indifference was always the first step before removal.

The one who stepped into the hall wore a white ceremonial suit, the kind reserved for heirs who sat closest to power during oath nights. It wasn’t religious in the way outsiders thought—it was tradition dressed as legitimacy, worn by families who wanted their authority to look old enough to be unquestioned. Luca Moretti entered first. Lia’s elder brother. He had always been the “acceptable face” of the Moretti name in the syndicate—calm voice, clean image, the kind of man council elders trusted to sign agreements they didn’t want traced too closely. But tonight, there was something carefully controlled in him, like a blade kept sheathed not out of mercy, but discipline. Behind him came the rest of the hall’s attention. And then— Virella. She didn’t walk like someone new to the structure. She walked like she had been absorbed into it long before anyone acknowledged her place. Her white gown was simple but expensive in the way only old money could afford—quiet luxury, no need for display. Silver-threaded accents caught the light when she moved, subtle enough to suggest innocence, intentional enough to suggest status. She didn’t look at Lia at first. Because she didn’t have to. She already knew everyone else would do it for her. A few steps behind her stood Rick Valenti. Lia’s fiancé. Or at least, that’s what the contracts still said. He wasn’t beside Lia. He was beside Virella, positioned in a way that looked natural if you didn’t know the history—too close to be coincidence, too familiar to be ignored. His posture had shifted compared to earlier. The sharp edges were still there, but dulled, as if something else had softened them in the span of a single evening. Something worse than softness. Comfort. Lia felt it before anyone spoke. Not betrayal exactly. More like displacement. Like a seat she had always occupied had been quietly reassigned while she was still sitting in it. Before she could move, Bella stumbled forward. Her timing was perfect. Too perfect. “Virella!” she cried, voice breaking just enough to carry. “She hit me—without reason!” Heads turned immediately. Not shocked. Interested. That was worse. Bella clutched her cheek, though the mark was already fading. Her performance didn’t need injury. It needed audience. “I only questioned why she came without an offering,” she continued, voice shaking with practiced distress. “And she… she struck me in front of everyone.” A pause. Then the line she had been waiting to deliver. “She even insulted my mother.” The hall shifted. Not loudly. Just collectively. Like a network recalibrating. Lia opened her mouth. But Virella spoke first. Soft. Controlled. Perfectly placed between accusation and forgiveness. “Lia…” Virella’s eyes lifted, glassy but steady. “Even if you were provoked, violence in a gathering like this…” She shook her head slightly, as if disappointed but unwilling to condemn. “…isn’t something that can be ignored.” That was the trick. Not accusation. Correction. Rick’s expression changed almost immediately. A small tightening at the jaw. The kind men in his position wore when they decided which version of a story would survive the night. “Lia,” he said, voice measured, “Lady Thorne’s daughter represents an allied house. You should have restrained yourself.” The word restrained landed heavier than blame. Around them, people didn’t interrupt. They recorded. Mentally. Quietly. Luca stepped forward next. Of course he did. He always arrived where decisions were being shaped. He positioned himself slightly ahead of Lia—not shielding her, not confronting her, but subtly separating her from the room’s judgment, like a handler managing a volatile variable. His expression was composed. Diplomatic. Almost kind. “I apologize on her behalf,” Luca said smoothly, nodding toward Bella. “My sister has had… a difficult period. She misread the situation.” Lia turned sharply. “You’re not even asking what happened?” Luca didn’t look offended. That was the problem. He looked tired. Like the answer didn’t matter enough to justify friction. “Lia,” he said gently, “this is not the time.” Not denial. Not agreement. Dismissal. Bella exhaled softly, instantly reassured. Virella lowered her gaze as if trying to hide how relieved she was. “I didn’t want trouble,” Virella said quietly. “I just hope we can all move forward.” Her voice trembled just enough to be believable. Then she added, softer: “I never wanted you to misunderstand me.” It was clean. Strategic. The kind of sentence that didn’t argue innocence—it reframed blame as emotional misinterpretation. Rick exhaled through his nose, eyes closing briefly like something inside him had reached a conclusion. When he looked at Lia again, it was different. Not anger. Not confusion. Certainty. “I brought you out of Silverbound today,” he said. “And this is what you do the moment you step back into a room?” His tone lowered. “You don’t even try to correct yourself anymore.” Lia stared at him. For a second, she almost didn’t recognize him. Not because he looked different. Because he sounded rehearsed. Like someone repeating a position already decided elsewhere. He turned before she could answer. And followed Virella out of the hall. Just like that. No hesitation. No second glance. The space they left behind didn’t feel empty. It felt occupied by absence. Whispers started again immediately. But Lia didn’t hear them clearly anymore. Because Luca was still standing in front of her. Still present. Still hers, in the only way that remained on paper. He sighed once, rubbing his temple like he was negotiating with exhaustion rather than truth. “We were arranging your reinstatement discussion,” he said. “That’s why we didn’t come earlier.” It should have sounded like care. It didn’t. It sounded like scheduling. Lia looked at him for a long moment. “You believe her,” she said quietly. Not a question. A reading. Luca paused. Just long enough to be noticeable. Then he gave a small, controlled exhale. “Lia,” he said, voice softer now, “we can’t afford conflict right now. Not in this room.” There it was again. Not “I believe you.” Not “I don’t.” Just avoidance wrapped in reason. He met her eyes. And for the first time, she saw it clearly. Not hatred. Not love. Management. “You’ve always been… strong,” Luca added carefully, like it was supposed to comfort her. “People expect more from you because of that.” Lia almost laughed. Almost. Because she remembered. Back when “strong” meant he stayed. Back when it meant he listened longer. Back when it meant she was protected instead of tested. Now it just meant she could be handled without breaking. Behind him, the hall continued. Glass clinked. Music resumed. The syndicate returned to conversation as if nothing had shifted at all. Like a name had not just been reassigned. Like a position had not just been rewritten. Lia stood still in the center of it all. And finally understood something she had refused to name before now. In this world, loyalty wasn’t broken in one moment. It was replaced quietly. By people who never raised their voice when they took your place.

Lia’s lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it—only exhaustion worn too deep to hide. “I understand,” she said at last. For a heartbeat, Luca’s expression shifted. Not soft. Not conflicted. Cold—brief and sharp, like something solid cracking under pressure. Then it was gone. He adjusted his cuffs, posture smoothing itself back into place like a man returning to negotiations. “Since you understand,” Luca said evenly, “then don’t repeat it.” Lia’s fingers tightened at her side. “What exactly are you saying?” The air between them changed. Not loud. Just heavier. Luca looked at her properly now. “You really want me to say it plainly?” he asked. “Bella is tied to Virella’s circle. And you still chose to provoke her in public, as if you aren’t aware how optics work in this family.” The words landed clean. Strategic. Measured. Final. Lia swallowed once. “So what?” she said quietly. “She insulted my mother first.” For a moment—just a moment—she thought he might hesitate. But Luca only exhaled through his nose, as if dealing with a predictable complication. “Rick was right,” he said. “You’ve been handled too gently.” Lia went still. That sentence didn’t feel like it belonged in her life. Not because it was cruel. Because it was already decided somewhere else before it reached her. Her throat tightened. “Bella said Father abandoned Mother because she wasn’t enough,” Lia said slowly. “You don’t feel anything hearing that?” Luca looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man assessing damage he no longer intends to repair. “Virella was a child,” he said calmly. “She didn’t choose any of it.” A pause. Then, softer—almost procedural: “There’s no point dragging her into sins she didn’t commit.” Something inside Lia gave way. Not explosively. Quietly. Like pressure finally finding a crack. Her mind pulled her back without permission. Back to that night. The Moretti estate under emergency lockdown. Black-suited enforcers moving through marble halls under her father’s order. Her wrists bound behind her while elders spoke over her head like she wasn’t there. “I didn’t do it,” she had said until her voice broke. “Check the ledger. Check the seals—” No one checked. Because someone had already provided answers. Convincing ones. Stamped, signed, and delivered before she even stepped into the room. And Luca— Luca had been there. Younger then. Not yet fully hardened into what he would become. She remembered his hand gripping hers too tightly in the corridor outside the council chamber. His voice had shaken. “I believe you,” he had said. A pause. “But I can’t stop what’s already been set in motion.” At the time, she had thought that meant he was fighting for her. Now she understood it meant something else entirely. That he had already accepted the direction of the current. And was simply asking her to endure it. The prison order had followed soon after. Signed. Sealed. Executed. No appeal ever reached her. Back in the present, Luca stood the same distance away as always—close enough to claim kinship, far enough to avoid consequence. “I’ll always be your brother,” he said finally, voice steady, controlled. “But I can’t afford disruptions like this.” Not protection. Not belief. Just management. Lia let out a slow breath. So that was it. Not betrayal in one moment. Not even a choice made in anger. Just gradual repositioning. Until she no longer fit where she used to stand. Her gaze lifted to him again. Not pleading. Not accusing. Just seeing. “You feel different,” she said quietly. Luca didn’t respond immediately. And in that silence, the answer settled anyway. Not hatred. Not guilt. Just distance that had already been normalized. Lia lowered her eyes slightly. A memory surfaced—her mother’s funeral procession, black cars lined under rain, Luca standing beside her with his suit too big on his shoulders, refusing to let go of her hand. “I’m here,” he had told her then. “Even if everything falls apart, I’m still here.” She had believed him without question. Because back then, he hadn’t yet learned how to choose between truth and stability. Now, standing in a room built on alliances and quiet power plays, Lia understood something she didn’t want to fully name. No one stopped being her brother in a single moment. They just stopped choosing her. And kept calling it duty.

The banquet hall had already shifted before Sebastian Moretti even stepped inside. Not in atmosphere alone—but in structure. Conversations lowered into cautious murmurs. Bodyguards adjusted their positions along the stone pillars. Even the servers moved differently, more measured, like they were now operating under direct oversight. That was how power worked in the Moretti Syndicate. No announcements. No theatrics. Just presence—and everyone recalculating around it. Sebastian entered with his inner circle of elders and two armed enforcers in discreet black suits. Not guards in the traditional sense, but men who handled enforcement outside legal jurisdiction. Men who didn’t raise voices because they didn’t need to. The moment his eyes landed on Lia, his expression hardened. “Disgrace,” he said flatly. The word wasn’t emotional. It was procedural. Like a classification. His palm struck the carved armrest beside him, the sound sharp enough to silence the remaining whispers. “You return after months in containment,” Sebastian continued, voice tightening, “and the first thing you do is destabilize my house during a public gathering.” Lia stood beneath the Moretti crest engraved into the ceiling stone. Light from the chandeliers fractured across her face in pale lines. She didn’t bow. Didn’t speak immediately. Morwen stood at Sebastian’s side, composed in that carefully maintained way women in syndicate households learned—soft voice, controlled expression, eyes always watching for advantage. “Lia,” Morwen said gently, “today is your father’s name-day. Even a small offering would have shown respect. You must understand how this looks to the others.” She said it like concern. But every word was reinforcement. Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. “Even Virella understands protocol,” he said. “She knows when to speak and when to remain unseen. After everything I built, this is what you present to me? A liability in front of allied families?” The room didn’t react. Not outwardly. But Lia felt the recalibration anyway. The subtle shift of perception. The quiet rewriting of her value in real time. Seven months in Silverbound detention facilities. Seven months of isolation, interrogation, and silence engineered to break resistance without leaving marks that mattered on paper. And now her first public appearance was being measured against a forgotten gift. She exhaled slowly. “Is a missing offering really more important than my return?” she asked. Sebastian’s answer came instantly. “Enough.” His hand moved before anyone registered intent. The strike landed clean. Lia staggered back, heel catching stone. The hall echoed with the sound—final, undeniable. Not emotional violence. Administrative correction delivered in public view. Pain bloomed along her cheek, but she didn’t lower her head. She looked at him instead. Straight. Level. “Father,” she said quietly, “if Mother were alive, she would not recognize this house anymore.” A silence dropped immediately. Not reverent. Controlled. Dangerous. Sebastian’s expression shifted—just slightly. A flicker of something unprocessed. But Morwen stepped in before it could form into thought. “Lia,” she said softly, “you’re distressed. Don’t drag the past into this. Selene would have wanted unity. Stability. Not division.” The words settled like a seal. Sebastian exhaled once. “As she said,” he agreed. “Selene understood balance.” Then his gaze returned to Lia, colder again. “Do not use your mother as leverage in your grievances.” He turned away. Morwen followed. No one stopped them. No one questioned why Virella’s absence went unmentioned in a room supposedly gathered for family. Because absence only mattered when it disrupted structure. And Lia no longer did. Whispers began almost immediately after. Assessments. Judgments. Reclassifications disguised as gossip. Lia remained still through all of it. Not because she was unaffected. Because reacting meant acknowledging the room still had authority over her state. She wasn’t willing to grant that yet. ** Rick arrived later. Not with urgency. With timing. The kind of timing that suggested prior awareness rather than discovery. His presence cut through the hall before he spoke. Conversations lowered again—not out of respect this time, but recalculation. Valenti influence carried weight even here, especially in matters involving internal disputes. “Lia.” She turned. He stood near the entrance, coat unbuttoned, expression controlled but strained at the edges. “You caused unnecessary attention toward Virella,” he said. No greeting. No check for injury. Just the conclusion. “Come with me,” he added. “Apologize properly.” It wasn’t a request. It was containment protocol. Lia stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. Rick’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t about morality,” he replied. “It’s about stability. Virella has been navigating political pressure since your release. You know what that costs in this environment.” He stepped closer. “And yet you still acted.” Lia’s breath hitched—not in anger, but in something worse. Recognition. Because she realized he wasn’t evaluating truth. He was balancing outcomes. And she was no longer the favorable variable. Her eyes blurred before she could stop it. Not dramatically. Just quietly—like a system reaching capacity. Rick froze. The shift in him was subtle, almost reflexive. Something old surfaced beneath his expression before being suppressed again. But it was there. For half a second. Then gone. “Why are you crying?” he asked, quieter now. Lia lifted her head. Her voice, when it came, was steady at the core. “If someone insulted your mother,” she said, “would you negotiate it away for political convenience?” Silence. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Lia let out a small breath. “That’s what I thought.” Rick’s expression hardened again. “Don’t twist this,” he said. “Bella’s actions were emotional. Virella didn’t orchestrate anything. You’re projecting intent where there is none.” Lia looked at him for a long time. Then she asked, very softly: “Did you bring me here knowing what would happen?” The air tightened. Not visibly. Structurally. Like something in the room had just been named correctly for the first time. Rick’s gaze flickered—brief, controlled. And that was enough. He recovered quickly. “This gathering was necessary,” he said. “Your release needed to be public. People needed to see you reintegrated.” A pause. Then, more carefully: “Nothing between us changes.” Lia almost smiled. It came out as nothing. “How many versions of the truth do you need before mine becomes valid?” she asked. Her voice stayed calm. “I didn’t do it.” A beat. “It was Virella.” No reaction. Not disbelief. Not consideration. Just absence of acceptance. Something in Lia settled. Not broken. Decided. Her voice softened. “Rick,” she said, “then I’m ending the engagement.” His head snapped slightly. “What did you say?” “I’m releasing the bond,” she repeated. “You’re free to align yourself with her without complication.” For the first time, something sharper broke through his composure. “This isn’t yours to terminate on impulse,” he said. “We’ve been structured since adolescence. There are contracts. Families. Networks.” Lia nodded faintly. “I know.” And that was what made it simple. “I’m still terminating it.” His expression darkened. Before he could respond, a signal pulse lit up from his internal device. Encrypted. Priority-linked. Virella. The change in him was immediate. Not emotional. Directional. He turned slightly toward the exit without another word. “Rick,” Lia said quietly. He paused just long enough to acknowledge she was still there. “I only ever saw her as—” The rest didn’t matter. He was already gone. ** Lia remained standing as the hall resumed its function around her. Conversation restarted. Glasses lifted. Agreements continued being formed. Her absence from the emotional center of the room didn’t disrupt anything at all. That was the clearest answer she had received all night. Not rejection. Replacement. She exhaled once, steady and deliberate. Then she turned away from the Moretti banquet hall. No hesitation. No final glance. Because in syndicate families, looking back was just another form of attachment. And she was done paying for that.

When Lia returned to the Moretti manor, the air inside already felt foreign—wrong in a way that didn’t need explanation. Not unfamiliar like distance, but unfamiliar like replacement. Like something in the house had been quietly overwritten while she was gone. The corridors still carried the old scent of pinewood smoke used for Moon Rite blessings and council gatherings. But layered over it now was something sweeter. Perfumed. Carefully chosen. The kind of scent used in political introductions, not family homes. At the end of the hall, she stopped. Her old chamber door stood half open. Inside, she saw it immediately. Virella’s presence. New drapes—silk, imported, silver-threaded like display pieces meant to impress visiting families. The bed had been replaced with softer, more luxurious bedding, arranged with deliberate care. Even the shelves had been reorganized, stripped of their old order and repurposed into something curated. A maid stood near the doorway, hands folded too tightly. “Miss…” she said carefully, bowing her head. “This room has been reassigned to Miss Virella.” Carefully chosen words. No blame. No authority. Just execution of instruction. Lia didn’t respond right away. She only looked at the room, as if waiting for it to correct itself. Then she asked, voice flat, “Where are my things?” The maid hesitated. Then motioned quietly. ** The guest room they brought her to was tucked behind unused corridors, the kind of space reserved for political inconvenience—temporary presence, not permanent status. Dust still clung to the furniture. The lighting was dimmer. Even the air felt like it had been sealed away and reopened only out of obligation. “This was where your belongings were placed,” the maid said softly. “I’ll have it cleaned immediately.” Lia nodded once. Then stepped inside alone. She moved through it slowly, opening storage trunks, folding through cloth, shifting items that no longer carried meaning outside memory. Each object she touched felt like evidence of a life that had already been archived without her consent. Then she stopped. Her fingers went still. Something was missing. Not just misplaced. Removed. Her mother’s photograph. Selene Moretti. Lia’s breath caught, immediate and sharp. After Selene’s death, Sebastian had ordered every physical record of her removed from the estate. No portraits. No recordings. No traces. Erasure disguised as grief management. But Lia had taken one back. A single photograph. Smuggled out before the burn orders were fully executed. Her mother holding her as a child beneath soft light, smiling like nothing in the world could reach them. She had hidden it herself. No one else knew. Her hands tightened. She stood abruptly and left the room. ** Her steps were faster now. Not rushed. Directed. She crossed corridors she hadn’t walked in months, ignoring staff who instinctively moved aside as they recognized the shift in her presence. When she reached her old chamber, the door was fully open. Inside— The photograph was on the bed. Lia stopped. For a moment, her body simply didn’t react. Then she walked forward slowly, like any sudden movement might change what she was seeing. She picked it up. Her hands trembled. The glass was intact. The image untouched. Selene smiled in the frame—soft, unguarded, real in a way nothing in this house had been for a long time. Lia’s breath broke. “Mother…” The sound came out uneven. Her vision blurred immediately, tears falling without permission. Then she noticed the other objects. A hairpin. A necklace. Earrings. Her breath stalled again. She knew them. Not by design. By memory. The hairpin Luca had once given her when he still thought loyalty was simple. The necklace Selene had worn in the last year she was alive. The earrings Rick had placed in her hand once, before contracts and alliances turned everything into something transactional. None of these had ever been discarded. None of these had ever been hers to lose. And yet— They were here. Arranged. Collected. Repurposed. Like inventory. Lia’s grip tightened. A cold realization settled in slowly. Not confusion. Recognition. Behind her, a voice broke through. “Lia?” Light. Casual. Almost cheerful. She froze. Then turned. Virella stood at the doorway. Perfect posture. Soft expression. The kind of face that didn’t demand attention—it received it naturally. “Oh,” Virella said, as if mildly surprised. “You found this room.” Lia didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped briefly to the items in Virella’s hands. Then rose again. Something in her expression shifted. Not anger. Not shock. Decision. She stepped forward once. Then struck. The sound was clean. Contained. No echo needed. Virella stumbled, falling back onto the floor, expression breaking just enough to trigger instinctive reactions from the household. Footsteps rushed in almost immediately. Rick entered first. Then Luca. Always in sequence. Rick reached Virella immediately, crouching to steady her. His attention locked on her first, not Lia. “Are you hurt?” he asked. No hesitation. No scan of the room. Just prioritization. Luca followed, eyes flicking once to Lia, then immediately down to assess the situation like a report forming in real time. “Lia,” Rick snapped, voice sharpening. “What do you think you’re doing?” Lia didn’t move. Her hand still held the photograph. Her voice came out low. “She stole from my room.” Rick’s jaw tightened. “That room was reassigned,” he said. “You were informed.” Lia let out a short breath. “Informed,” she repeated. Like the word itself was foreign. Luca stepped closer, tone controlled but firm. “Violence is unnecessary,” he said. “Virella didn’t take anything deliberately. She only moved what was already allocated.” Allocated. Lia’s grip tightened slightly. Rick’s focus shifted fully now, irritation settling in. “You’re acting irrationally,” he said. “This is exactly what we tried to prevent when you were released.” Released. Not returned. Not home. Released. Lia finally looked at them properly. Not at Virella. At them. The ones standing between her and the room. Her voice was quiet. “I didn’t come back to lose everything twice.” Silence followed. Not agreement. Not denial. Just pause. Then Virella sniffled softly from the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t realize it was important to you. Rick and Luca just told me I could use the room…” That was enough. Rick’s expression softened immediately—not toward Lia, but toward Virella. Luca exhaled like the situation had already resolved itself. And Lia understood something very clearly then. This wasn’t misunderstanding. It wasn’t confusion. It was structure. And she was no longer inside it in the way that mattered. Virella carefully gathered the fallen items from the floor, holding them like reclaimed property. Lia looked down at her empty hands. Then at the photograph still in her grip. Her voice came out calm. Too calm. “If you want them,” she said, “take them.” A pause. “I don’t need anything here anymore.” For a brief moment, something flickered in Luca’s eyes. Not guilt. Recognition. But it didn’t last. Rick turned slightly, already shifting focus back to Virella as if the matter was closed. And that was the final answer. Lia lowered her gaze. Then let go. Not of the photograph. Not yet. But of the expectation that anything in this room still belonged to her in the way it once had.

With a heavy thud, Lia hit the stone floor. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs. Cold marble bit into her palms as she tried to steady herself, but it was already too late. The Moonstone frame slipped from her fingers. Time didn’t just slow—it fractured. She watched it fall like it belonged to someone else. The glass shattered on impact. A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, too loud for a space that had learned to stay controlled. Like something sacred being signed out of existence. Fragments scattered across the floor, catching torchlight in broken glints. The image inside—Selene Moretti holding a younger Lia beneath soft light—was torn apart in an instant. And then the blood came. Not metaphor. Not illusion. Real. Red spread across the broken photograph like a signature no one intended to leave. Lia froze. Her body simply… stopped. “Mother…” The word came out cracked, barely formed. She moved forward on instinct, knees scraping stone, hands shaking as she reached for the fragments. But a grip closed around her wrist before she could touch it. Rick. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “You’ll cut yourself.” She fought immediately. Not strategic. Not careful. Just raw. “No—let me go!” Her voice broke. “That’s her—my mother—let me—” Rick tightened his hold, pulling her back as he saw the blood on her palm. “Stop moving,” he said, lower now, urgent. “You’re bleeding.” His hand shifted, holding her wrist steady, then he did something almost unthinkable in a room like this. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Not performance. Not politics. Instinct. “I’ll replace it,” he said, voice strained. “I swear. Just stop hurting yourself.” But Lia wasn’t listening anymore. “This is all I have left of her,” she whispered, shaking. “Don’t take this too.” Behind them, Luca stepped forward. His expression tightened the moment he saw the shattered frame. “Enough,” he started— But Virella moved first. She crouched beside the fragments. “Virella, no—” Luca warned. Too late. A shard sliced into her palm. She gasped softly, almost rehearsed in its timing, blood dripping onto the broken photograph like punctuation. Rick let go of Lia instantly. “Virella!” he said, catching her hand. “You’re bleeding.” And just like that, the room reoriented itself. Concern shifted direction. Attention followed. Virella winced, but her voice stayed gentle. “It’s fine,” she said softly. “It doesn’t matter… as long as the picture is safe.” Lia stared. At the blood. At the shattered frame. At how quickly pain had been reassigned. Her breathing turned shallow. “What…” she whispered, barely audible. “Did my mother ever do to you?” No one answered. They were already elsewhere—Rick with Virella, Luca signaling for a healer, elders murmuring about damage control instead of what had actually been broken. Lia lowered herself slowly. Her fingers touched the soaked fragments. Careful. Like something still sacred might forgive her if she handled it gently enough. But the image had already bled through. Selene’s face distorted, swallowed by red. Gone in real time. Her vision blurred. And then— The hall disappeared. She was back in memory. A crashed vehicle. Rain hammering metal. Her mother holding her close. Too tight. Too final. A voice she could barely hear anymore. Then silence. When she returned, her breath hitched violently. Something inside her didn’t break. It detached. Cleanly. Her body folded forward. And everything went dark. ** When she woke, Virella was the first thing she saw. Sitting beside the bed like she belonged there. Soft expression. Controlled grief. Perfect timing. “Lia,” she said gently, “you’re awake.” Silence. Lia didn’t respond. Virella smiled faintly. And something in that smile shifted—just slightly. Not kindness. Not apology. Ownership. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said softly. “You’re not angry with me, are you?” Lia stayed still. So Virella leaned in a little closer. “You see?” she whispered. “It’s easier than you think.” A pause. “To take what belongs to you.” Her gaze sharpened subtly. “I just needed people to look at me instead.” Still no reaction. So she continued, voice almost conversational now. “Luca is already changing,” she said. “Rick too. Even your father.” Lia’s fingers twitched under the blanket. Virella noticed. “Do you want to know why?” she asked lightly. That pulled something loose. Lia turned her head slightly. Her voice was hoarse. “Why?” Virella smiled as if she’d been waiting for that exact word. “I brought a priest,” she said. “From the northern syndicate rites. The kind who reads fate through old blood methods.” A pause. “He said you’re cursed.” Lia’s breath stalled. Virella watched it land. “He said everyone close to you will suffer,” she continued casually. “And that your mother’s death wasn’t an accident—it was payment.” Lia’s grip tightened beneath the fabric. Cold spread through her chest. “And Luca believed it,” Virella finished simply. Silence followed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just absolute. So that was it. Not truth. Not logic. Just a story with enough authority behind it to replace reality. A curse. A convenient explanation for everything that had already been decided. Lia didn’t move for a long moment. Then she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, something had gone still behind her gaze. Not acceptance. Not collapse. Calculation without emotion. ** Rick came later. Twice. Maybe more. He sat like nothing had changed. Like distance was optional. “You shouldn’t think too much,” he said calmly. “Virella only meant to preserve the photograph. It was already damaged.” A pause. “I know you’re upset,” he added, softer. “But she isn’t your enemy.” Lia didn’t respond. Only when he mentioned the photograph did her fingers tighten slightly. He noticed. Of course he did. Rick reached out, brushing her cheek like it still belonged to someone who trusted him. “I’ll bring it back when it’s restored,” he said. Then he left. Like that solved something. ** Luca came in the evening. He held the frame. Repaired. But wrong. The image had been reconstructed, but something in it was off—like memory forced through unfamiliar hands. He placed it down gently. “It couldn’t be fully restored,” he said. “Virella tried.” Lia stared at it. Long. Unmoving. Then: “Throw it away.” Luca stiffened. “What?” Her voice didn’t rise. It emptied instead. “Throw it away.” He hesitated. “Virella worked hard—” Lia finally looked at him. And there was nothing left in her expression that expected him to understand. “If it had never been touched,” she said quietly, “none of this would have happened.” Silence. Then she asked: “Luca… do you think Mother’s death was my fault?” The room tightened. Luca didn’t answer. And that was enough. Lia exhaled once. “I see.” She looked away. Not at him. Not at the frame. Somewhere past both. ** Later, Sebastian entered. His presence filled the room without announcement. “This house has been in chaos since your return,” he said sharply. “When will you stop behaving like a liability?” His gaze narrowed. “Learn from Virella.” Lia didn’t respond. Not even a glance. That silence irritated him more than argument. But he left anyway. Because he always did when nothing in her reacted the way it was supposed to. ** At last, Lia spoke. “I will leave.” Quiet. Final. “My mother left me assets of my own. I won’t stay here any longer.” Luca turned sharply. For the first time, something uncertain crossed his face. “Lia,” he said slowly, “I’ve already asked Virella to begin managing your estate affairs.”

Sebastian gave a single approving nod, as if the matter had already been stamped by something final and irreversible. “You are to wed Rick,” he said, voice clipped, decisive. “Stay within the family. Preserve what remains of this house’s standing in the circuit.” Lia didn’t move right away. The words took a moment to settle, like ink sinking into fabric. Not just her mother’s photograph. Not just her memories. Now even the last thread of Selene Moretti’s legacy—the company she had built quietly, protected carefully, kept out of the dirty hands of power games—was being pulled away. Lia’s fingers curled so tightly her nails bit into her palms. The air in the room felt thinner, like even the walls were listening and deciding she had already lost. “That company,” she said slowly, voice trembling but controlled, “was left to me. Not transferred. Not shared. Left. On my mother’s will. What authority do you have to decide it like it’s spare property?” Sebastian didn’t even entertain the question for long. Luca stepped in instead. Always Luca. His tone was measured, the kind of calm that didn’t soothe—it sealed things shut. “I hold equity in it,” he said. “That gives me legal standing under house structure and corporate agreement.” A pause. “You’re unstable right now, Lia. Rest. Don’t involve yourself in decisions that will only drain you further.” It wasn’t cruelty. That was the problem. It was worse. It was dismissal dressed as care. Like her grief was an inconvenience in a ledger that needed balancing. The door closed after them with a soft click. Final. Not loud enough to protest. Just enough to confirm she had no further say. Lia stood alone in the chamber. Silence settled around her like dust after a raid. Then her breath broke. A tear fell. Then another. She didn’t wipe them away. There was no audience left to maintain dignity for. Everything Selene had left behind was being redistributed like assets after a collapse. Piece by piece. As if she had never existed at all. ** Rick came more often after that. Always with the same approach—controlled steps, softened voice, hands that tried to feel like safety. When he held her, it was gentle in a way that used to mean something. Now it felt rehearsed. “Don’t worry,” he would say, brushing her hair back as if smoothing out damage. “Once we are officially bound, everything that was taken will be returned under joint control. No one will be able to touch what belongs to you.” Lia said nothing. The words passed through her without finding a place to land. So he changed tactics. Gifts began appearing in her room. Imported fabrics. Antique trinkets. Jewelry that didn’t belong to any single territory or supplier, the kind that moved through private channels and passed through too many hands to trace cleanly. Small luxuries meant to soften resistance. Soon, the room stopped feeling empty. It started feeling occupied. But not with comfort. With things that watched. ** It happened in the afternoon. Lia had woken earlier than usual, the kind of waking that doesn’t feel like rest ending but tension continuing. Voices outside her door. Low. Familiar. Too familiar. She didn’t move. She listened. “I’m asking you,” Virella’s voice drifted in, light, almost amused, “you bring her so many things… and nothing for me?” A pause. Rick. Lower. Careful. “Virella… Lia is inside.” A soft laugh followed immediately. Unbothered. “So?” Virella said. “She’s not awake, is she? Since when did you start fearing silence on her behalf?” Lia’s hand tightened slightly under the blanket. Outside, footsteps shifted closer. Cloth brushing cloth. Distance collapsing. Rick’s voice dropped further. “We should talk somewhere else.” But Virella didn’t move. “I won’t,” she said simply. Then, quieter—almost playful. “I want these.” Lia didn’t need to open her eyes. She already knew what “these” meant. The gifts. The replacements for absence. A pause stretched. Then Rick exhaled—low, controlled, like something inside him had stopped resisting. “You’re pushing it,” he said. “I want them,” Virella repeated. Another rustle. Then restraint broke—not violently, but decisively. Like a line crossed without hesitation. A murmur. Too low to be fully words. Too close to be denial. Lia heard movement. Fabric shifting. Then stillness that wasn’t empty anymore. Through the curtain slit, she saw it. Shadows overlapping. Virella’s hand resting on his chest like she already had permission to stay there. Rick’s posture loosened, his gaze angled away from the bed. And then— Virella leaned up. And kissed him. It wasn’t uncertain. It wasn’t accidental. It was familiar in a way that suggested repetition. Rick froze for a fraction of a second. Then exhaled. Not rejection. Not retreat. Just acceptance of something already decided. Lia stared at the space between them for a moment longer. Then slowly turned her face away. Not because it hurt more to see. But because there was nothing left in it worth confirming. ** After they left, the room felt heavier than before. Lia rose. Walked to the corner. And there, quietly, she bent over and vomited. No sound beyond breath and effort. No collapse beyond necessity. Just the body rejecting what the mind had already stopped disputing. ** Days passed without clarity. Only patterns. Rick came and went. Virella smiled in public and claimed private space in pieces. Luca spoke in terms that sounded like concern but functioned like control. And Lia began to listen differently. Not emotionally. Strategically. She noticed who entered without announcement. Who left without accountability. Which documents disappeared from desks overnight. Which signatures shifted under “review.” She started remembering everything. Not as pain. As structure. ** Then she left her chamber. No warning. No explanation. Just absence. Rick found her in the corridor before anyone else noticed. “Lia?” he said, stepping forward. “Why are you out here?” She was already dressed as if she had been preparing for this longer than anyone realized. Her expression was calm. Too calm. “This room is compromised,” she said. Rick blinked. “Compromised?” Lia looked at him steadily. “Yes,” she said. “You don’t stay in a space once you know it’s no longer secure.” A pause. His shoulders eased slightly, misunderstanding settling in. “I’ll have it cleaned,” he said. “We can move you somewhere else.” Lia tilted her head faintly. “That won’t be necessary.” Something in his expression softened. Relief, almost. “Good,” he said. “We’re close to finalizing the union anyway. After that, nothing here will be uncertain anymore.” He stepped closer, voice lowering. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to stop resisting me.” Lia didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t hear him. But because she did. Completely. She looked at him for a long moment. Then said, almost gently: “Before that happens… I’ll give you something.” Rick smiled faintly. “A gift?” “Yes,” she said. His hand reached for her wrist, casual, familiar. “You’re finally learning,” he murmured. “Good.” Lia didn’t pull away. That was what made him comfortable. That was what made him mistake silence for surrender. Her voice followed, soft enough to feel intimate. “It’s a secret.” Rick chuckled under his breath, pulling her briefly closer. “I’ve been half-mad waiting for you,” he said quietly. Lia didn’t respond. Because only she knew— this wasn’t closeness. It was timing. Five days remained until Virella’s name-day. And in five days, the structure they thought was stable would stop being theirs to control. Not with noise. Not with warning. But with disappearance.

After Rick left, Lia did not watch his departure. She didn’t need to. The corridor outside the manor had long stopped feeling like part of a home. It felt more like a passage people used when they still needed her for something. She stood beneath the tall arched window instead, where wind slipped through old stone cracks like something that didn’t belong to anyone anymore. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “Keep him in sight,” she said. The man in front of her didn’t belong to Moretti circles, nor any official registry of the family’s retainers. People like him didn’t exist in records unless someone wanted them erased later. He gave a single nod. No questions. No curiosity. Then he left. Not through the front gate, but through the side passage where servants avoided looking too long. A man like him didn’t walk out—he simply stopped being seen. Lia didn’t ask how he would do it. In their world, asking meant weakness. ** The first day, information came back in fragments. Rick had taken Virella into Selene Moretti’s estate. Not as a courtesy visit. Not as oversight. But as someone with full access. That house still carried Selene’s imprint—old architecture, discreet security lines, private rooms locked behind inherited codes. It wasn’t just property. It was legacy storage. The kind of place where accounts, contacts, and old agreements were still kept off record. They stayed there until late night. No return until dawn broke over the ridge. By the second report, there were no more interpretations left. Only confirmation. Lia read everything without changing her expression. The gifts Rick had once brought her were still arranged neatly in her chamber. Imported items, sentimental tokens, small luxuries meant to soften silence. She walked through them once. Then began clearing them out herself. One by one. Not thrown. Not destroyed carelessly. Handled. Removed. Burned in controlled silence behind the estate walls where no cameras or messengers lingered. The fire didn’t crackle loudly. It just consumed. Like information disappearing after being processed. ** On the second day, Luca became part of the report. He hadn’t just known. He had facilitated. Transfers, introductions, quiet approvals routed through northern branches of their family network. A necklace, traced back to an old Moonstone workshop—commissioned under Virella’s name. Not a gift. A signal. Lia read it once. Then set it down. She didn’t ask why. People didn’t betray you because of confusion. They did it because the outcome had already been accepted. That same day, she began dismantling her personal presence inside the manor. Not emotionally. Systematically. Accounts reviewed. Assets separated. Private holdings liquidated through neutral brokers. Anything tied to her name was either sold or reassigned under terms that couldn’t be reversed without legal escalation. She even ordered the central portrait in the hall taken down. Not destroyed. Adjusted. Reframed. In its place, Virella’s image was quietly inserted into the composition—officially updated through a “restoration correction.” No one questioned it. Corrections in their world always sounded official. Even when they weren’t. ** On the third day, Rick and Luca returned. They noticed immediately. You couldn’t miss absence when it was done properly. The manor didn’t feel empty. It felt reorganized. Rick stopped near the entry hall where storage crates had once stood. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where is everything?” he asked. Luca’s gaze moved slower, reading details instead of reacting to them. Empty shelves. Cleared tables. Missing records that should have still been there. Lia stood near the staircase. Calm. Collected. “I’m preparing,” she said. “For what?” Rick’s tone tightened. “For the engagement,” she answered simply. That explanation should have eased things. It did not. Luca stepped forward, producing a small box from inside his coat. Inside was a Moonstone-grade necklace, designed through northern channels. Expensive. Rare. Officially untraceable. “I brought this for you,” he said. Lia looked at it. She recognized the origin instantly. Northern craftsmanship wasn’t just style—it was a signature in trade circles. A quiet way of saying this was authorized through me. She nodded once. “Thank you.” No reaction followed. That was what unsettled them. Rick then presented his own item—a ceremonial engagement set, deep red fabric meant for formal union display. He watched her closely as he spoke. “I can replace it if you don’t like it,” he said. “We can choose together.” Lia studied the fabric. Her gaze lingered just long enough for memory to surface—Virella in similar tones, already moving through spaces that were never officially hers. “I don’t like red,” she said finally. “It suits her better.” A pause. Rick frowned. “What does that mean?” “Nothing,” Lia replied. “I just won’t need it.” Silence tightened between them. Luca and Rick exchanged a glance—not confusion, but calculation. Something wasn’t aligning with expected behavior. Their tokens vibrated at the same time. Encrypted calls. Urgent pull-back signals from pack-level operations. Both men checked them. Then looked at Lia again. “We’ll return later,” Luca said. Rick added, more softly, “Don’t overthink things.” They left. Not knowing they had just stepped out of a system they still believed they controlled. ** By nightfall, Lia received the confirmation she had already anticipated. Photographs. Locations. Records of movement. Rick and Virella together in secured properties, their access uninterrupted, their presence documented without attempt at concealment anymore. Because concealment was no longer necessary. At some point, secrecy stops being protection and becomes habit. Lia stood on the balcony that night. Below, the estate lights flickered in controlled patterns, like a system still pretending it was stable. Far beyond the horizon, controlled fireworks from a nearby territory lit the sky in structured bursts—celebration tied to alliance announcements she hadn’t been invited to. She watched them without expression. Not jealousy. Not grief. Just confirmation. When people stop hiding things from you, it usually means they’ve stopped seeing you as part of the equation. ** On the fourth day, she finalized everything. Remaining assets moved. Properties reassigned. Silent exits executed through channels that didn’t leave emotional trace, only financial ones. By morning, Sebastian arrived. He stepped into the manor and stopped almost immediately. Something about the space felt rebalanced. Not ruined. Not abandoned. Reassigned. “What have you done?” he asked. Lia stood by the hearth. Calm. Ready. “I’ve prepared for the engagement,” she said. “It’s what you wanted.” Sebastian studied her for a long moment. But he didn’t see what had already started. Because in their world, preparation was always mistaken for compliance. And departure always looked like obedience—until it wasn’t.

Sebastian truly believed her. There was no sharpness in Lia’s voice, no trace of rebellion that would suggest resistance. Only that quiet, drained stillness he had begun to associate with exhaustion after everything that had happened. So he dismissed it the way powerful men dismiss things they no longer consider immediate threats—without urgency, without consequence. He turned to leave, already treating the conversation as closed. But Lia called after him. He stopped at the doorway. She stood near the wide glass window, sunlight spilling across her like pale gold over polished stone. It should have softened her. Made her look like the daughter he once knew in quieter years. Instead, it only made her stillness sharper. “Father,” she said. And something in that word felt different. Not softer. Not pleading. Just… finished. “This will be the last time I call you that.” Sebastian turned slowly. For a fraction of a second, something unfamiliar crossed his expression. Not guilt. Not regret. Recognition. A resemblance he didn’t want to see. Selene. Then it was gone. He looked at her like a man assessing risk. “You will marry Rick soon,” he said. “After that, you will remain within the structure. No unnecessary moves. No emotional decisions.” Lia lowered her gaze slightly. A faint curve touched her lips—not warmth, not bitterness. Something stripped of both. “I understand,” she said. Sebastian nodded once, satisfied in the way men are when silence is mistaken for obedience. Then he left. ** On the fifth day, the estate was already moving like a machine preparing for a public operation. Guests from allied families arrived under formal invitation. Security routes were reinforced. Communication lines were monitored. Even the household staff moved with rehearsed precision, as though everyone had been briefed on a script no one questioned aloud. The celebration for Virella Moretti was being prepared as a public affirmation—bloodline recognition, alliance reinforcement, reputation consolidation. The kind of event that didn’t just celebrate a person, but repositioned power. Lia did not attend any of it. She moved instead through quieter channels. She spent what remained of her personal funds through untraceable brokers—names that didn’t appear on family ledgers, routes that didn’t pass through Moretti oversight. Then she released everything. Not in one strike. In layers. First: private testimonies from servants bound by old service oaths. Then: financial records showing unauthorized transfers tied to Virella’s network. Then: recorded communications—Rick’s voice, Luca’s approvals, fragments that connected decisions no one thought would ever be linked publicly. And finally, the affair. Not rumor. Not suspicion. Documentation. Locations. Times. Witness confirmations. Transaction overlaps that could not be explained away as coincidence. She didn’t send it to one place. She let it spread through multiple corridors at once. Border networks. Trade intermediaries. Private information brokers who sold truth faster than official channels could bury it. By the time anyone inside the estate realized what was happening, it was already outside their control. At the same time, Lia traced the deeper structure. Virella hadn’t simply benefited from lies. She had engineered them. The accusations that led to Lia’s imprisonment weren’t spontaneous. They were coordinated—seeded through intermediaries, reinforced by false testimony, sealed under procedural pressure that made questioning them dangerous. Every path led back to the same source. And it was already too late to undo it quietly. Because the day of Virella’s public recognition had already begun. On an island estate owned by Sebastian. Private. Controlled. Secured. A place designed to look like celebration but function like consolidation. ** Rick arrived first. The moment he stepped onto the island grounds, he felt it. Wrong spacing between guards. Delayed responses from staff. A tension in the air that didn’t belong to celebration. He moved through the estate quickly. Too quickly. “Where is Lia?” he asked one of the attendants. The man hesitated. “She was not listed among arrivals, sir.” Rick’s jaw tightened. “She was supposed to be here.” “I believe she did not come,” the attendant replied carefully. “We were told she was… unwell.” Rick stopped walking. “Unwell?” he repeated. Something in his tone made the attendant step back. Before Rick could press further, Luca appeared at the edge of the corridor, adjusting his cuff as if nothing was out of place. “She did not attend,” Luca said flatly. “She stayed behind.” Rick turned sharply. “You knew she wasn’t coming and didn’t say anything?” Luca frowned slightly. “It is not unusual for her to withdraw,” he said. “Especially when Virella is present.” Rick stared at him. Not anger yet. Something worse. Realization forming too slowly. “You’re treating this like a preference,” Rick said quietly. “Not a disappearance.” Luca exhaled, impatient. “It is not that serious.” That sentence landed heavier than expected. Rick pulled out his phone immediately. No response. Again. Nothing. A second message came in from his network liaison before he could try again. “Sir, the exposure has begun. Information regarding you and Miss Virella is circulating through multiple trade channels. It is expanding rapidly.” Rick’s grip tightened. “Contain it,” he ordered immediately. “Shut every route. Block distribution. Do not let it reach Lia.” He ended the call and tried again. Then again. Each attempt met the same result. No response. Then a failure notice. Blocked. Rick stared at the screen for a long moment. The noise of the island celebration continued around him—music, guests, announcements—but it all felt distant now, like it belonged to another operation entirely. Another message arrived. “This cannot be contained anymore.” Rick didn’t respond. He threw the phone down. The sound cracked sharply against stone. For the first time, his expression lost its control. Not fear of exposure. Not fear of consequence. Fear of timing. Because Lia had already stopped responding before any of this could be explained. And that meant she hadn’t been reacting. She had been preparing. Somewhere beyond the island, beyond their reach, beyond the system they thought still held her in place— Lia Moretti had already stepped out of it. And silence, Rick realized too late, was not absence. It was decision.