Chapter Four: A Wolf in Velvet

The flash drive sat like poison in Eva's palm.

She didn't know how long she stood in the archive, staring at surveillance photos of herself taken months before Damian ever said her name. Before the wedding. Before the whispers. Before blood became currency.

She clicked through image after image. Her at the flower shop. Her on the subway. Her laughing with her sister in the alley behind the cafe where it all ended.

There was even one of her crying in the cemetery.

They had been watching her long before she walked down that aisle.

She wasn't the hunter.

She'd been the prey all along.

---

Damian wasn't at breakfast.

Not that she expected him to be. Wolves didn't share coffee with the lambs they were circling.

Celeste sat across from her instead, sipping tea like it was wine. "You look pale, dear. Nightmares?"

Eva stirred her cup once, twice. "You ever have the feeling you were the last to realize a game had already started?"

Celeste raised a brow. "Marriage into this family has a learning curve. But if you play your part well, you might just survive it."

"I didn't marry to survive," Eva said quietly. "I married to win."

Celeste smiled—a slow, razor-thin curve of her lips. "Good. The dead girls never say that."

---

That afternoon, the car took Eva to the Moretti countryside estate for what Damian's assistant called "a soft introduction."

The sprawling property was old and drenched in menace. Twisting ivy curled up grand stone pillars. The windows were tall and watchful, like silent sentinels. Eva stepped out in a fitted black dress and heels that made her footsteps sound like warnings on marble.

Whispers rippled around her like perfume.

That's her.

The bride.

The sister of the girl he—

She walked straight through it like smoke. She wasn't here to be liked. She was here to dismantle.

Inside, the halls of the estate were colder than she expected. Everything smelled faintly of old wood, older secrets, and iron—like the kind that clung to blood.

"Mrs. Moretti," a butler greeted. "The drawing room, if you please."

She nodded. Her spine stayed straight, her gaze steady.

The room was a painting of old money: dark velvet armchairs, gilded bookshelves, and the smell of expensive scotch and expensive silence. Several Moretti relatives sat with the stillness of wolves in the wild—drinking, watching.

She met every eye. Didn't blink.

"Eva," said a smooth voice from the corner.

She turned to find a man rising from his chair. Mid-thirties, dark-haired, sharp-boned, and wearing a smile with too many teeth.

"You must be the infamous bride," he said.

"And you are?"

"Luca. Damian's cousin. And the only one in this room who won't lace your drink. At least not today."

"How generous of you."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He doesn't marry. Ever. So whatever made him do it, you should probably find out before it eats you alive."

Eva didn't flinch. "I already know what it is."

"Oh?" Luca tilted his head. "Do tell."

"I remind him of someone who died."

His grin slipped a little. "Ah."

She sipped her champagne. "Maybe it'll be mutual."

---

Eva slipped away just after dusk.

The estate's back garden was a sprawling, overgrown labyrinth of tangled roses and half-dead trees. There was an old orchard at the far end—twisting branches clawing at the sky like they wanted to drag the stars down.

She walked between them, needing space to think. To breathe.

To burn.

"He told you, didn't he?" came a voice behind her.

She didn't turn. "Told me what?"

"That your sister wasn't innocent."

Damian's voice was softer than usual. Rougher, like it had been dragged through gravel.

She faced him slowly. "That's not what the files say. The files say you stalked me. You orchestrated the marriage. And you murdered her in an alley."

He stepped into the moonlight. No jacket. Just dark sleeves rolled to his elbows, shadows etched into the lines of his face.

"I didn't kill your sister."

"No?" Her voice cracked. "Then who did?"

Damian's jaw tightened. "She made enemies, Eva. Ones she didn't tell you about."

"You watched me for six months and now you're rewriting the past?"

"I watched you," he said quietly, "because she begged me to."

Silence fell, thick as fog.

"Liar."

"I have the recordings. From her last week. She knew someone was after her, and she came to me." His gaze held hers. "She begged me to protect you."

Eva's stomach twisted.

"She never said a word."

"She couldn't. She thought telling you would sign your death warrant."

"Or maybe she knew you'd use it against me one day."

Damian moved closer, step by slow step. "You want the truth so badly? Here it is. She stole something that didn't belong to her. She tried to run, and when she couldn't, she made me promise one thing—keep you out of it."

"But you didn't."

"No," he said. "Because you walked right into the fire anyway."

She turned away, breath ragged. "What did she steal?"

His pause was a little too long.

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

---

She turned back to him, eyes blazing. "You're lying."

"I don't need to lie to you, Eva."

"You're the devil, Damian. You wrap your truths in silk and poison and call it honesty."

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny object. It caught the moonlight.

A ring.

Hers. Her sister's.

Eva's fingers curled. "Where did you get that?"

"Your sister gave it to me the night she died. She asked me to keep it for you."

She stepped back. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to. But ask yourself something, Eva." He stepped forward again. "If I wanted to destroy you… why would I give you back something that could prove what happened?"

She didn't answer.

Because she didn't know.

All she knew was that the man standing before her was both salvation and ruin.

And worse?

Some part of her wanted to believe him.

Even now.

Even after everything.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know."

She shoved the ring into her pocket and turned her back on him.

And didn't see the way he watched her leave.

Like she was the ghost he couldn't bury.