20. Victoria #2
Evening light spills through the tall windows, bathing the furniture in soft gold. Beyond the glass, the estate stretches toward the horizon. Stone pathways weave through perfectly maintained gardens. Security men patrol the grounds below.
Every corner of this place reminds me that freedom and luxury are not the same thing.
I should shower first.
The day has left a thin layer of exhaustion clinging to my skin, along with the lingering scent of the lab. The box can wait a few more minutes.
I force myself to look away from it and head into the bathroom.
By the time I emerge, wrapped in a robe with my damp hair falling over my shoulders, the evening feels quieter somehow. The hot water has eased the tension in my muscles, but it has done nothing to settle my thoughts.
The package remains exactly where I left it.
Waiting.
My attention returns to the box.
I untie the ribbon.
The lid lifts easily.
For a second, I simply stare.
A gown rests inside.
Black.
Not flashy. Not decorated with unnecessary crystals or embroidery meant to attract attention from every corner of a room.
Elegant.
The fabric looks impossibly smooth beneath my fingertips. The neckline is graceful. The silhouette is refined. The kind of dress that does not need to beg for admiration because it already commands it.
Beneath it sits a pair of heels.
Practical enough to walk in.
A small velvet box rests in one corner.
I open it.
Pearl earrings.
My breath catches.
A memory rises before I can stop it.
The last time I wore pearls was years ago.
The night Francesco proposed.
I had just graduated.
Everyone called it a celebration.
To me, it felt like a performance carefully arranged long before I arrived.
I remember sitting beside him during dinner while family members smiled around us. I remember the weight of expectations pressing against my shoulders. Then Francesco stood, reached inside his jacket, and produced a ring.
The room erupted before I could even process what was happening.
My eyes searched for my mother.
She sat across from me with Mikhail beside her.
My father had been gone for a few years by then.
She had found someone else. She looked happy.
And I knew what was expected of me.
My heart had wanted a different future.
My family needed another.
So I said yes because the script required it.
The applause still echoes in my memory.
The ring slid onto my finger.
Everyone celebrated.
That should have been enough to tell me what my future would become.
Later that night, the arrangement’s emotionless weight manifested in the bedroom.
Francesco took me to his house, driven by a possessive streak that lacked any form of tenderness.
My body barely even touched the mattress before he reached for the back of the gown, pulling the zipper down with an aggressive tug.
He stripped away my underwear and pushed me forward, claiming me from behind.
It was entirely rough, a display of dominance rather than passion, and the friction left me aching.
He always preferred force over intimacy.
Four hours later, the silence of the house woke me. I stepped out of the bedroom to get myself a glass of water, only to overhear his voice drifting from the conservatory.
He was on the phone with another woman, speaking with a familiarity that made his low laugh sound entirely different from how it did with me.
He thought I was alone and asleep. After that day, the truth began to unravel in a steady flood of text messages and calls that arrived on his phone at all hours, completely devoid of remorse.
Cheating became too mild a word for what he did.
The months that followed stripped away every illusion.
Francesco’s affection was possessive rather than tender.
Every disagreement became a test, explanation became an interrogation, and every promise came with conditions attached.
Then came the betrayals.
One after another.
Late-night phone calls.
Lies delivered with complete confidence.
The engagement that had looked perfect from the outside rotted quietly from the inside.
By the time it ended, I no longer recognised the woman who had accepted that ring.
I blink.
The memory dissolves.
My gaze settles once more on the pearls in my hand.
The resemblance to that night unsettles me.
I close the velvet box immediately.
No.
Lorenzo does not get to affect me with thoughtful gifts.
He does not get to make me wonder.
He certainly does not get to make me remember parts of myself I buried years ago.
I set the box down.
A knock sounds at the door.
The sharp sound drags me fully back to the present.
“Yes?”
“It’s Maria, Miss Vitale.”
I cross the room and open the door.
Maria stands outside holding a garment steamer.
A makeup case rests in her other hand.
The moment she sees me, she hesitates.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Don Nero said I should come only if you wanted help.”
Only if.
The words irritate me more than an order would have.
I glance toward the bed.
Toward the dress.
Then back to Maria.
“I haven’t decided.”
“That’s perfectly fine.”
She starts to leave.
“Wait.”
The word leaves my mouth before I can reconsider.
Maria pauses.
I stare at the gown again.
Dinner, with Italian guests, probably with lots of questions.
Politics.
Danger hidden beneath expensive suits and polite smiles.
I should stay in this room.
I should prove to myself that I still control at least one decision in my life.
Instead, I step aside.
Maria enters without comment.
She carefully removes the dress from the box.
The fabric spills over her arms.
“It really is beautiful,” she says softly.
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right, but beauty has never guaranteed safety.
Half an hour later, I stand before the mirror.
For several seconds, I barely recognise my own reflection.
The black gown fits perfectly.
The fabric follows every line without appearing desperate for attention.
Maria has pinned my hair back, leaving a few loose strands around my face.
The pearls rest against my ears.
Simple and elegant.
Maria smiles from behind me.
“You look wonderful.”
I study my reflection.
Wonderful isn’t the word I would use.
I look composed.
That matters more.
Another knock interrupts the silence.
Heavier this time.
Maria glances toward the door.
I nod.
She opens it.
Rocco stands outside.
His gaze lifts briefly before dropping with immediate respect.
“Miss Vitale.”
His voice remains professional.
“Don Nero asked me to escort you if you decided to attend.”
There is no surprise in his expression.
Perhaps nobody in this house truly believed I would refuse.
I pick up the small evening bag Maria prepared.
My coat remains draped across the chair.
For a moment, I consider taking it.
Then I leave it where it is.
No hiding.
Not tonight.
Maria offers a final smile.
“Good luck.”
I almost laugh.
Luck has never been particularly interested in me.
I thank her anyway.
Then I follow Rocco into the corridor.
The estate feels different tonight.
Warmer.
More alive.
Voices drift through distant hallways.
Music echoes faintly somewhere below.
Not recorded music.
A real piano.
Each note carries through the house with effortless grace.
My pulse quickens despite my determination to remain calm.
We move down one corridor and then another.
The closer we get, the louder the atmosphere becomes.
Conversation.
Laughter.
The clink of crystal glasses.
Italian accents weave together in smooth conversation.
Rocco remains silent throughout the walk.
I appreciate that.
He does not attempt small talk.
He simply escorts me.
When we reach the final corridor, he slows.
Large double doors stand ahead.
Golden light spills through the narrow opening between them.
The sound of voices becomes clearer.
My stomach tightens.
From awareness.
The moment I step through those doors, I will no longer be an invisible guest hidden away in Lorenzo Nero’s estate.
People will see me.
Judge me.
And tomorrow they will discuss every word I say.
Rocco reaches the entrance and steps aside.
The doors remain closed.
Waiting.
I draw a slow breath.
Lift my chin.
And take the final steps toward them.