The first rule Luca taught me about power wasn't about violence.
It was about silence.
"People fear what they don't understand," he said as we stood in the briefing room. "And they fear women who don't explain themselves even more."
The room was filled with screens financial dashboards, news feeds, security maps. Marcus and two senior advisers stood waiting. Everyone looked at me like they were trying to decide whether I belonged there.
I straightened my spine.
"Begin," I said.
Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. "We've prepared a controlled release. No press conference. No interviews. A single image. A single statement."
The screen changed.
It was me.
Dressed in black. Calm. Composed. Standing beside Luca.
No smile. No fear.
"This goes out to private investors, allies, and neutral territories," Marcus continued. "It signals stability."
"And pregnancy?" I asked.
"Not mentioned," Luca said.
"Good," I replied. "That's not a weakness they get to measure yet."
One adviser cleared his throat. "With respect, Mrs. De Santis, this is highly irregular."
I turned to him. "So was forcing me into this marriage. And yet, here we are."
Silence followed.
Luca's lips twitched slightly.
The statement went live within the hour.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just present.
And the reaction was immediate.
Phone lines lit up. Messages poured in. Markets stabilized. Two wavering partners confirmed loyalty within thirty minutes.
"She's reacting," Marcus said quietly.
I nodded. "She didn't expect me."
The reply came before nightfall.
A leak.
Photos surfaced online grainy, intimate, cruelly framed.
Me, stepping out of the penthouse weeks ago. Luca's hand at my back. Another image caught from a distance my hand resting on my stomach.
Speculation exploded.
Mistress. Forced bride. Pregnancy rumors.
My chest tightened as I scrolled through the headlines.
"She's testing you," Luca said calmly. "Trying to provoke panic."
"It won't work," I said, though my voice wavered slightly.
"It might," Marcus said carefully. "Public opinion shifts fast."
I set the tablet down.
"No," I said. "Not if I move first."
Luca looked at me sharply. "What are you planning?"
I met his gaze. "A counter."
That night, I recorded a message.
No makeup. No jewelry. No script.
Just me.
"I am Elena De Santis," I said into the camera. "I am not a victim. I am not a rumor. And I will not be erased."
I spoke about strength. About choice. About standing where you're placed and refusing to bow.
Not once did I mention Luca.
When it was over, the room was silent.
Marcus swallowed. "That was… effective."
Luca watched me like he was seeing me for the first time.
The video went out through selective channels.
The reaction was explosive.
Support surged. Speculation stalled. And for the first time, the narrative shifted.
"She's angry now," Marcus reported an hour later. "Isabella just froze three shell accounts."
I smiled faintly. "Then she's bleeding."
But power never comes without cost.
Later that night, I found Luca alone in the private office, staring at an old photograph.
He didn't turn when I entered.
"Do you regret it?" I asked softly.
"Regret what?"
"Marrying me."
He finally looked at me.
"No," he said. "I regret underestimating you."
I stepped closer. "You're not alone in this war anymore."
"I know," he replied. "And that's what scares me."
Before I could answer, alarms blared through the compound.
Marcus's voice cut in, sharp and urgent.
"Sir. We've lost contact with the east corridor."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
Luca was already moving. "It means she's inside."
A scream echoed through the halls.
Guards shouted.
Then silence.
A message appeared on the central screen.
COME ALONE.
Under it, a live video feed.
A woman tied to a chair.
My breath stopped.
"Is that" I whispered.
Luca's face hardened. "Your sister."
The screen flickered.
Isabella Romano's voice filled the room, smooth and amused.
"Let's see how powerful you really are, Elena."