Sibella cruel enough to rip the wig from a sick woman’s head and publicly degrade her beside a gilded charity portrait

While Alban dismantled his fiancée in the grand ballroom, Nerelle sat shivering in the luxurious confines of the second-floor study. The room was a stark contrast to her sparse servant’s quarters. Rich mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, and the bright, airy lighting highlighted the expensive leather furniture. She sat on a plush sofa, Alban’s heavy suit jacket still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, offering a strange, masculine comfort.

The door clicked open, and Dr. Evans, Alban’s personal physician, walked in carrying a leather medical bag. He was an older man, his fair skin lined with years of quiet complicity in the Mafia boss’s world.

"Miss Davenby," Dr. Evans said gently, setting his bag on a glass coffee table. "Mr. Rookmere asked me to check your vitals. You had a severe shock downstairs."

"I'm fine, Doctor," Nerelle whispered, pulling the wig from her lap and setting it on the sofa beside her. "I just... I shouldn't have spoken. I've ruined the wedding."

"You did exactly what you had to do," a deep voice resonated from the doorway.

Nerelle looked up. Alban stood in the threshold, having left the ballroom behind. He had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing the sharp, artistic tattoos that crawled up his forearms. He walked into the room, exuding a quiet, terrifying calm.

"How is she, Robert?" Alban asked the doctor.

"Her heart rate is elevated, but stable," Dr. Evans reported, checking her pulse. "The missed treatments have compromised her immune system, Alban. She needs to resume the protocol immediately."

"She will," Alban said, his cold eyes fixing on Nerelle. "Tomorrow morning. I will personally drive you to the clinic."

Nerelle looked down at her hands, her rosy cheeks flushing again. "Mr. Rookmere, you don't have to do this. I'm just a maid. Sibella was right... you can't save everyone."

"I am not trying to save everyone, Nerelle," Alban replied, sitting in a leather armchair opposite her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "My mother died of the exact same cancer you have when I was ten years old. My father had all the power in the world, but he couldn't buy her life. When you were diagnosed, I decided I would not watch it happen again under my roof. The money was yours."

Nerelle stared at him, stunned by the revelation. The ruthless, terrifying Mafia boss was keeping her alive as a tribute to a ghost.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Alban said. He leaned back, his expression darkening into a mask of pure business. "But I need you to think carefully, Nerelle. During the weeks I was away in Chicago, when Sibella was running the estate... did you hear anything else? Did she mention her brother, Thomas?"

Nerelle frowned, her brow furrowing as she searched her memory. "Thomas... he visited twice while you were gone. Late at night. They argued in the conservatory. I was cleaning the silver."

Alban went very still. "What did they argue about?"

"Thomas was terrified," Nerelle recalled, her voice steadying. "He said the money wasn't enough. He told Sibella that the Valenti family didn't just want the debt paid. They wanted the gate codes to the estate."