---- Chapter 11 Alex POV: The panic was a physical thing, a tightening in my chest. | finally got through to Mark, my Consigliere, back in New York. "Find her," | ordered, my voice low and dangerous. The reply came an hour later via a secure text. *The Don says to let her be. She is safe in Paris and wishes to be left alone.* Paris? She was here? Relief washed over me, so potent it made me dizzy. It was followed by a hot spike of anger. She had run to my father. She was trying to make a point. Fine. She could have her little vacation. | would deal with her when | got back. With the immediate panic subsiding, | took Aria shopping on the Avenue Montaigne. She tore through the stores like a child in a candy shop, grabbing at anything that glittered. She tried on a classic Chanel suit, the same one Katarina owned in three different colors. On Kat, it looked like a second skin, elegant and powerful. On Aria, it looked like a costume. The fabric pulled awkwardly at her shoulders, and she fidgeted with the hem. ---- "Don't you love it?" she asked, preening in the mirror. "It's nice," | said, my mind a million miles away, remembering Kat's effortless grace. Aria was a replacement, a stand-in, and a poor one at that. She must have sensed my distraction because her mood soured. The easy affection was replaced by a pouting greed. Our walk along the Seine that evening was tense. She tried to hold my hand, to reignite the spark, but all | felt was a dull, aching guilt. Not for what | was doing to her, but for what | had done to Katarina. | had broken something pure for something cheap. Back at the suite, | called Mark again. "| don't care what my father says," | hissed into the phone. "| want eyes on her. | want to know where she is, who she's with, what she's eating for breakfast. | want a full surveillance report. Now." An hour later, a photo arrived on my encrypted device. It was Katarina. She was standing outside an apartment building, talking to another woman. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a genuine, carefree smile on her face that | hadn't seen in years. The relief | felt was quickly soured by a possessive jealousy. She looked... free. She was supposed to be my Caged Canary, beautiful and sad in her golden cage. But here she was, looking like she'd ---- just learned to fly. Another photo came through a few days later. She was with the same woman, but this time, there was a man with them. He was handsome, in a rugged, artistic way. He was looking at Katarina, and she was smiling back at him. They were sharing a bottle of wine at a sidewalk cafe. A raw, primitive rage surged through me. She was mine. Her smile, her time, her life-it all belonged to me. How dare she look at another man like that? How dare she build a new life without my permission? | had let my canary out of her cage, and now she was learning a new song. And | knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that it was a song | would never be able to teach her. Discover our latest featured short drama reel. Watch now and enjoy the story!