Vittorio healed slowly.
The doctors said his recovery would take weeks. Amélie knew better. Some wounds did not obey medicine. They lived in memory, in the sudden tightening of breath, in the way silence could turn sharp.
She stayed by his side anyway.
The stronghold had never felt smaller. Every corridor echoed with unspoken fear. Every shadow seemed to move with intention. The founder had succeeded in one thing.
He had made everyone feel watched.
"You should sleep," Vittorio said one night, his voice still rough.
Amélie sat beside him, arms folded, eyes fixed on the darkened window. "I will when you do."
He studied her face. "You are burning yourself alive."
She turned to him slowly. "They tried to take you from me. I will not be still after that."
Something unreadable crossed his expression. "That is what he wanted."
She knew it was true.
And she did not care.
The retaliation came disguised as generosity.
A coalition of syndicates announced a public truce. Routes reopened. Funds unlocked. Pressure eased as suddenly as it had arrived.
Too suddenly.
"They want you comfortable," Vittorio said once he was strong enough to join her in the strategy room.
Amélie stood over the table, studying the map. "Comfort dulls instinct."
"Yes," he agreed. "And you have sharp instincts."
She glanced at him. "You are worried."
"I am realistic," he replied. "You are becoming something they cannot predict."
She met his gaze steadily. "Neither can I."
That honesty unsettled him more than bravado ever could.
The founder made no direct contact.
Instead, reminders appeared.
A childhood home in Provence was purchased by a shell company and quietly demolished. A former tutor vanished without trace. A painting her mother once loved was returned to her office, restored and unsigned.
Each gesture was deliberate.
He was not threatening her life.
He was dissecting her past.
"He wants to know what shapes you," Vittorio said quietly.
Amélie stared at the painting long after everyone else had left the room. "Then he is already too late."
The fracture came from within.
One of her inner circle requested a private audience. A man who had served her father for decades. Loyal. Careful.
"I believe we are moving too quickly," he said, avoiding her eyes. "The founder offers stability."
Amélie leaned back in her chair. "At what cost."
"At the cost of resistance," he replied. "At the cost of sentiment."
She nodded slowly. "And if I refuse."
He hesitated. "Then you risk everything your father built."
She stood.
"My father built a prison and called it order," she said calmly. "I will not inherit his mistakes."
The man bowed stiffly and left.
That night, he defected.
By morning, three others followed.
The fault lines were no longer hidden.
"They are dividing us," Vittorio said, anger threading his voice.
"No," Amélie replied. "They are revealing themselves."
She turned to him, her expression fierce. "I will not rule through fear."
"And if fear is all they understand."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Then I will teach them something else."
He searched her face. "What if that costs you ?"
Her breath caught.
For a moment, the Queen disappeared.
"I already lost you once," she said softly. "I will not survive losing you again."
Silence wrapped around them.
He reached for her hand, hesitant. "Then stop carrying this alone."
She let him.
That was the most dangerous choice of all.
The founder finally spoke two days later.
A single call.
No traceable line. No distortion.
"You are fracturing," he said calmly. "As expected."
Amélie held the phone with steady fingers. "You mistake transformation for collapse."
A pause.
"You love him," the founder said.
Her jaw tightened. "Do not speak his name."
"You have made him your weakness."
She smiled faintly. "You have made him your mistake."
His breath changed. Just slightly.
"I offered you guidance," he said. "You chose defiance."
"I chose myself."
"You cannot dismantle a world without becoming monstrous."
She replied softly. "Then you should be afraid. I am not dismantling it."
Another pause.
"What are you doing," he asked.
She looked out over Paris, alive and burning with light.
"I am replacing it."
The line went dead.
---
That night, Amélie stood on the balcony with Vittorio beside her.
"The next move will be brutal," he said.
"Yes," she replied.
"And personal."
She leaned into him, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. Not for comfort. For grounding.
"They believe love weakens leaders," she said quietly.
He wrapped an arm around her. "It only weakens those afraid to bleed for it."
She closed her eyes.
For the first time since her father died, she felt something steady beneath her fear.
Not certainty.
Resolve.
Below them, the city breathed.
Above them, unseen forces aligned for war.
And somewhere in the darkness, the founder smiled.
Because the most dangerous phase had begun.
Not the fight for power.
But the fight for what it would become.