SILENT THRONES

The rain came down in cold sheets, soaking the marble steps of the Moreau estate until they gleamed under the floodlights.

Black cars lined the curved driveway like a funeral procession, each one more expensive and ominous than the last.

Men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns flowed into the mansion, smiles painted over sharpened intentions.

Tonight was a celebration.

Tonight, the Moreau family was officially announcing their heir to the throne of an empire built on blood.

Catalina Varela pulled the edge of her black silk shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out of the hired town car.

Her fingers trembled-not from fear, but from the pure force of holding herself together.

Tonight wasn't about fear.

Tonight was about reclaiming what had been stolen.

The driver murmured something she didn't hear as she strode toward the entrance, her heels clicking against the wet stone.

The air was heavy with the scent of rain, gasoline, and anticipation.

She moved with careful grace, her new identity fitting her like a second skin.

Catalina Varela was dead.

Tonight, she was Lina Cortez - a ghost reborn, a weapon crafted from betrayal and loss.

The massive front doors swung open, revealing a world bathed in gold.

Inside, crystal chandeliers spilled fractured light across walls lined with priceless art, portraits of cold-eyed ancestors staring down at their descendants.

The scent of expensive cologne, gunmetal, and ambition filled the cavernous hall.

Catalina paused just inside, absorbing the scene.

Guards in black suits stood at precise intervals, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Waiters moved like shadows, trays balanced on steady hands.

Laughter rang out, bright and brittle, bouncing off marble and gilded edges.

She moved through the crowd, careful to keep her face composed, her posture elegant.

Each step was measured, each glance calculated.

There - on the dais at the far end of the grand hall - stood Dominic Moreau.

The man she had been taught to destroy.

Tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly composed in a black suit, Dominic looked every inch the mafia prince he was.

His dark hair was slicked back with ruthless precision, and a gold Moreau family ring gleamed on his right hand - the hand that would soon rule everything Catalina's family had once controlled.

Her stomach twisted.

He was supposed to be a monster.

The last time she had seen him, she was seventeen and bleeding out in the dirt, betrayed by people who had once sworn loyalty.

Dominic's name had been whispered like a curse in her hospital bed, alongside all the others who had helped tear her world apart.

And yet...

As she watched him now, Catalina didn't see a monster.

She saw a man who wore his crown like a chain.

She saw cracks in his armor that no one else seemed to notice - the rigid set of his shoulders, the fleeting tightness around his mouth when he thought no one was looking.

He doesn't even know I exist,

Catalina reminded herself.

Good.

It made it easier.

A waiter appeared at her elbow, offering a tray of champagne flutes.

Catalina accepted one, her fingers brushing the chilled glass.

She lifted it slowly, using the moment to scan the room again.

Whispers floated through the crowd.

"...taking over everything..."

"...too young to be trusted..."

"...after what happened to his father, you'd think they'd pick someone safer..."

Catalina tucked the murmurs away, filing them in the quiet, ruthless part of her mind that had kept her alive.

A man brushed past her shoulder - and for a heart-stopping second, his eyes widened, a flicker of startled recognition flashing across his face.

Catalina turned sharply, angling her body away, pretending to admire a massive oil painting of a battle scene.

Her pulse hammered at her throat.

Did he recognize her?

No.

Couldn't be.

She looked nothing like the girl who had once danced at Moreau galas, the girl whose blood had stained these floors.

Still, she waited three long breaths before glancing back.

The man was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Control. Silence. Patience.

The three rules she had lived by since clawing her way out of the grave they left her in.

When Catalina looked back toward the dais, Dominic Moreau was staring directly at her.

Their eyes met across the room - a brief, electric collision.

Catalina froze, glass halfway to her lips.

Dominic's brows furrowed, just slightly, like he was trying to place her.

Recognition flickered across his features - confusion, curiosity - but then disappeared into cool indifference.

The way a predator dismisses a flicker of movement at the corner of its eye.

Catalina turned away first, heart slamming against her ribs.

She forced her breathing to slow, her expression into something serene.

Control.

Silence.

Patience.

Tonight was only the beginning.

Tonight, she planted the first seed of doubt.

Tonight, she whispered in the right ears, smiled at the right enemies, and moved across the Moreau empire like a quiet storm, unnoticed but inevitable.

She slipped between groups, murmuring polite greetings, letting her presence settle like a shadow.

She laughed once, a low, musical sound, when a drunken councilman tried to impress her with talk of offshore accounts.

All the while, she watched Dominic from the corner of her eye.

He wasn't smiling.

He wasn't basking in the adoration of the crowd like a king should.

He looked... trapped.

As if the crown being placed on his head tonight was nothing but a gilded collar.

Interesting, Catalina thought.

Very interesting.

And dangerous.

The night spun on, and Catalina moved with it, weaving her web thread by thread.

When she was ready -

When Dominic Moreau trusted her enough -

She would burn his kingdom to the ground from the inside out.

A slow smile curved Catalina's lips as she melted into the crowd, her black dress flowing like spilled ink behind her.

Some crowns were worn in silence.

And Catalina Varela had come to take hers back.