It was the afternoon at the Constantine's owned estate office in Naples. A room that was huge, luxurious, and gold-accented with a table that is long enough for 20 guests. The air was quiet; only the small sway of the chandelier filled the room. Until soft footsteps echoed down the halls.

A woman draped with a white tailored coat trailing behind her, in a black dress that matches her twisted tied hair, draped behind her back. Each step she passed by made guards already stationed back in their places not dare to make eye contact with the woman who had just passed them. She stopped at the long mahogany table, walking behind it, drawing a chair out without a word. She sat down, leg draped over the other, hand reaching inside of her coat—drawing out a heavy, gold, inherited pocket watch. 4:40 pm.

Twenty minutes early.

She leaned back against her plush seat, gloved hand lying flat with her pocket watch against the table, fingers tapping onto the metal—deliberate, patient. She thinned her lips, then spoke, "She's late." Her eyes were on the empty seat across from her. Her fiancé's seat. From across the room, Alberta stood by the window, arms folded in a charcoal suit sharp enough to draw blood.

"She's not late; you're just early." A cold, flat tone came out of her lips, her eyes never leaving the window. Dolores's expression didn't waver—but her fingers stopped tapping on her watch. "How political of her." She said with hidden disdain, "I don't waste time. Unlike people marrying me off like a rabbit all because of my golden legacy and womb." She said, her brows furrowing a little with a twitch.

Alberta's fist clenched by her side, her eyes never leaving the window. "Don't talk like your father didn't build this all for you." Dolores lets out a sneer, "Please. The only thing he gave me is this seat. A place of power he doubted I could take; now here I am. Sat on where his ass of ash was before."

Before Alberta could let a word out of her mouth, a knock echoed through the room. One knock, then the door opened. Dolores didn't bat an eye, yet she felt a slow, measured clench deep inside her. And then—she walked in. Like she owned the place, with the energy of an alpha with high power. Typical, Dolores thought. Dolores's eyes met hers across the table.

The omega's facial expression didn't waver. Unimpressed, like a queen already prepared to dismiss a knight as if their armor meant nothing. She finally spoke, cold velvet dripped with venom. "So... you're the one I'm supposed to marry." With a lower and rough tone, "Take a seat." It wasn't an act of politeness, it's a command. Let Alberta lecture her later about "etiquette" after this. Dolores actually has important matters to attend to from now on.