The Betrayed Princess's New Reign

Elena Moretti POV:

The heavy, soundproof oak door clicked shut, instantly cutting off the suffocating noise of the ballroom.

I was standing in the VIP lounge behind the main hall. I dropped the cold, flawless mask of the Queen. I let my shoulders slump, exhaustion finally creeping into my bones.

I kicked off my diamond-encrusted high heels. My bare feet sank into the plush, warm Persian rug. I pressed my fingertips to my temples, rubbing the dull ache pulsing behind my eyes.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

My lead assistant stepped inside. He moved quietly, holding a thick manila envelope stamped with the red letters: TOP SECRET.

"Boss," he whispered, stepping forward and handing me the envelope. "The Chicago slum redevelopment project initiated ten minutes ago. The demolition is fully underway."

I pulled the string tie and slid out the documents. On top of the legal papers was a high-resolution, live-feed photograph printed on glossy paper.

My eyes swept over the image. My expression turned to solid ice.

The photo showed massive yellow bulldozers tearing through the frozen, rotting slums of Chicago. They were smashing down the last standing red brick wall of the alleyway where the homeless gathered.

In the bottom corner of the frame, crushed beneath the massive steel tracks of the bulldozer, was a pathetic lump of dirty fabric. It was a ruined, one-eyed teddy bear, caked in frozen black mud.

It was the bear I had given Luca ten years ago. His last, pathetic anchor to the girl he had destroyed. Now, it was being ground into the dirt, buried forever beneath the concrete foundation of my new corporate high-rise.

I flicked the edge of the photo with my fingernail. A cold, hollow sneer left my lips.

I tossed the photo onto the glass coffee table.

"And the other piece of trash?" I asked, my voice devoid of any human empathy.

The assistant pulled a small black remote from his pocket and pressed a button. The massive flat-screen television mounted on the lounge wall flickered to life.

The screen showed a grainy, black-and-white security feed from a state-run insane asylum in the frozen suburbs of Chicago.

The cell was dark, damp, and disgusting. Even through the screen, I could imagine the sharp, choking stench of stale urine. The concrete walls were covered in dark smears of blood and frantic, jagged scratch marks.

Matteo was on the floor. He was wearing a filthy, torn hospital gown. His amputated right stump dragged uselessly behind him as he crawled across the filthy cement like a crushed insect.

In the corner of his cell sat a cheap, bulky television. The signal was terrible, the screen covered in static lines. But it was broadcasting the live news feed from the Manhattan banquet.

The camera zoomed in on the TV screen. It showed me, standing in my red dress, looking down as the entire room of elites knelt at my feet.

The blurry image burned through the static. It stabbed directly into Matteo's wide, sunken eyes.

He stopped crawling. He stared at the screen. He stared at the woman he had once thrown away to rot, the woman who was now a god completely out of his reach.

His pupils dilated wildly, shaking with violent terror and an agonizing, soul-crushing regret.

He opened his crooked mouth. A muffled, guttural scream tore from his throat. Thick strings of drool leaked from his lips, splattering onto the dirty floor.

He grabbed his own hair and began to slam his forehead violently against the solid concrete. Thud. Thud. Thud. He was trying to shatter his own skull, trying to bash the memories of his own stupidity out of his brain.

On the screen, the heavy iron door of the cell was kicked open.

A massive, burly orderly walked in. His face was twisted in disgust. In his right hand, he held a long, black stun baton.

The orderly didn't say a word. He walked over to Matteo, raised the baton, and jammed the metal prongs brutally into Matteo's exposed ribs.

A bright blue arc of electricity flashed on the screen.

Matteo's spine arched violently. He convulsed on the floor like a fish thrown onto dry land, his mouth wide open in a silent, agonizing shriek.

The orderly sneered. He stepped his heavy boot down hard onto Matteo's amputated stump, pinning him to the floor. The orderly reached over and yanked the power cord of the television from the wall.

The screen in the cell went black. The room plunged into absolute, dead darkness.

Matteo curled into a tight, trembling ball on the floor, left to rot in endless pain and pitch-black hell for the rest of his miserable life.

The assistant pressed the remote. The wall screen in the lounge clicked off, returning to a blank, black mirror.

I didn't feel a drop of pity. I didn't feel triumph. I felt absolutely nothing.

I walked to the table, picked up my half-empty glass of champagne, and took a slow sip. The bubbles burned pleasantly down my throat.

I picked up the manila envelope and the photograph of the crushed teddy bear. I walked over to the heavy-duty paper shredder sitting in the corner of the room.

I fed the papers into the slot.

The machine roared to life. The harsh, grinding noise of steel blades chewing through paper filled the room. The photograph, the legal documents, the last traces of the Chicago slums—all of it was sliced into tiny, unfixable ribbons of trash.

The past was physically, permanently destroyed.

The lounge door swung open.

Dante strode into the room. He didn't pause. He walked straight to me, bent down, and scooped me up into his arms, lifting me effortlessly off my bare feet.

I gasped, dropping the empty envelope. I instinctively wrapped my arms around his thick neck, a genuine laugh escaping my lips.

"You're completely barbaric, Dante," I scolded playfully, resting my head against his shoulder.

Dante didn't answer. He turned his head and captured my lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hot breath rushed into my mouth, completely drowning out the mechanical grinding of the shredder.

He carried me out of the lounge, walking purposefully toward the private elevator that led to the roof helipad. The screaming crowds, the kneeling politicians, the rotting ghosts of Chicago—he was taking me away from all of it.

Dante kicked the elevator button. The doors slid open.

I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne and gunpowder.

"Take me home."