16. Mia
16
MIA
T he cool morning air brushes against my skin as I slip out from under the luxurious silk sheets. For a moment, I stand still, letting the plush carpet cushion my bare feet, and take in the opulent bedroom that is now mine—ours. The events of yesterday still feel like a dream, or perhaps a beautifully crafted nightmare.
I pad softly to the ensuite bathroom, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar soreness between my legs—a reminder of the night I became Luca’s wife in every sense. The marble floor is cold against my feet, a stark contrast to the warmth that floods my cheeks as memories of last night flash through my mind.
Shaking off these thoughts, I turn on the shower, letting steam fill the spacious bathroom. As I step under the hot spray, I can’t help but marvel at the multiple showerheads that seem to massage every inch of my body. Our ensuite showers at home didn’t have this.
Home . The word brings a lump to my throat. Will I ever see my family again?
I push the thought aside and focus on the task at hand. The array of expensive toiletries lining the shower caddy catches my eye—all in scents I love. How did Luca know? I choose a lavender-scented body wash, inhaling deeply as I lather it over my skin. The familiar scent calms me, grounds me in this unfamiliar place.
After drying off with a towel so soft it feels like a cloud, I wrap myself in a plush robe and step back into the bedroom. A walk-in closet larger than my old room beckons, and I hesitate before the door. Taking a deep breath, I step inside.
Rows upon rows of clothes greet me, all in my size, all in styles I would choose for myself. Dresses, blouses, skirts, pants—an entire wardrobe curated just for me. The attention to detail is both touching and unsettling.
How much does Luca know about me? And why go to such lengths for a marriage of convenience?
I run my fingers along the fabric of an emerald green dress, marveling at its softness. It reminds me of the gown I wore to the ball where I first met “Leonardo”—where this all began. With a sigh, I choose a simple white blouse and a pair of tailored black pants.
Classic, elegant, an armor of sorts for whatever this day might bring.
As I dress, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back at me looks familiar, yet somehow changed. My dark hair falls in waves around my face, still damp from the shower. My eyes, usually bright with curiosity, now hold a wariness I’ve never seen before. I am Mia Marino—no, Mia Strambo now. The name still feels foreign on my tongue.
I apply a light touch of makeup, just enough to feel put together. A swipe of mascara, a hint of blush, a dab of lip gloss. Simple, understated, like the girl I’ve always been. But as I look at my reflection one last time, I wonder if that girl still exists. Or if, like everything else in my life, she’s been irrevocably changed by my marriage to Luca Strambo.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my reverie. “Come in,” I call, smoothing down my blouse one last time.
The door opens to reveal a kind-faced woman in a neat uniform. “Good morning, Mrs. Strambo,” she says with a gentle smile. “I’m Lucia, the housekeeper. I’m here to show you around the house and help you choose your personal suite.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction from my swirling thoughts. “Thank you, Lucia. I’m ready whenever you are.”
As I follow Lucia out of the room, I cast one last glance at the rumpled bed where Luca and I spent our first night as husband and wife. My cheeks warm again at the memory, and I quickly look away.
I’m struck by its grandeur. High ceilings, gleaming marble floors, priceless artwork adorning the walls. It's so similar to my family home. Yet there’s an underlying elegance that speaks to Luca’s refined taste.
“This is the east wing,” Lucia explains as we enter a long hallway. “Mr. Strambo thought you might like to choose your personal suite from these rooms.”
We tour several sets of rooms, each more beautiful than the last. But it’s the third option that catches my eye, large windows overlooking the gardens, a cozy sitting area, and a bathroom with a tub I could easily spend hours soaking in.
“This one,” I say, running my hand along the smooth wood of a writing desk. “I think I’d like to make this space my own.”
Lucia beams. “Excellent choice, Mrs. Strambo. Shall we discuss color schemes and designs?”
For the next hour, I lose myself in fabric swatches and paint samples. It’s a welcome distraction from the tumult of my thoughts. As we work, I find myself opening up to Lucia, asking questions about the house, about Luca.
“Mr. Strambo is a good man,” she says, her voice warm with affection. “He runs a successful business, much like your father's, but he built it all on his own.”
This piques my interest. “On his own? What about his family?”
Lucia’s expression turns sad. “From what I understand, Mr. Strambo’s father was an ordinary man. He passed away when Mr. Strambo was quite young. I think that's why he’s so good to us, the staff. He knows what it’s like to work hard for everything you have.”
I speak with more of the staff as we continue our tour. Each one echoes Lucia’s sentiments—Luca is stern but fair, demanding but generous. The respect they have for him is evident in every word.
But beneath their praise, I sense a current of sadness. Luca, it seems, is alone in this big house. No father, no siblings, and his mother… well, no one seems to know much about her.
The thought of him rattling around in this massive place by himself tugs at my heart.
As Lucia excuses herself to attend to other duties, I find myself drawn to a warm, inviting aroma wafting through the halls. Following my nose, I soon find myself at the entrance of a vast, state-of-the-art kitchen. The space is alive with activity—staff bustling about, pots simmering on the stove, and the rhythmic sound of knives chopping on cutting boards.
For a moment, I hesitate at the threshold, unsure whether I’m allowed in this domain. But before I can retreat, a jovial voice calls out, “Well, if it isn’t the new mistress of the house!”
All activity in the kitchen comes to a halt as every head turns in my direction. I feel my cheeks warm under their collective gaze, but their smiles are welcoming and genuine.
A tall man in a crisp white chef’s uniform approaches me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Mrs. Strambo, welcome to your kitchen. I’m Giorgio, the head chef. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
“Thank you,” I manage, still a bit overwhelmed by the warm reception. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Suddenly, I’m surrounded by kitchen staff, each eager to introduce themselves and express their delight at finally meeting me. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself relaxing in their presence.
“Mrs. Strambo,” a young sous chef pipes up, “we’d love to know all about your favorite dishes. We want to make sure we’re preparing meals you’ll enjoy.”
I’m touched by their thoughtfulness. “Oh, that’s very kind of you. I’m not picky, really, but I do love?—”
“Now, now,” Giorgio interrupts gently, a twinkle in his eye. “While we’re certainly eager to cater to your tastes, Mrs. Strambo, there’s an even more important matter at hand.”
I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Giorgio’s expression turns comically stern, though I can see the humor dancing in his eyes. “It’s your job, Mrs. Strambo, to make sure Mr. Strambo eats his vegetables. That man would subsist entirely on meat and potatoes if we let him. But now that you’re here, we’re counting on you to add some green to his plate.”
The kitchen erupts in good-natured laughter, and I find myself joining in, charmed by their obvious affection for Luca. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen—the man who inspires such warmth and loyalty in his staff.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise, grinning. “Though I can’t say I’m much better when it comes to vegetables.”
This elicits another round of laughter and a chorus of promises to make vegetables so delicious that neither Luca nor I will be able to resist them.
As I leave the kitchen, arms laden with freshly baked pastries that the staff insisted I try, I’m struck by a realization. The Luca these people know—the man who inspires such devotion and warmth—is vastly different from the cold, angry man I married.
Who really is my husband? The charming stranger from the terrace? The furious man who took me from my family? Or this person who has earned the genuine affection of his staff?
The question haunts me as I continue my exploration of the house. Each interaction, each new piece of information, only seems to deepen the mystery that is Luca Strambo. And despite my fear, despite the circumstances that brought me here, I find myself increasingly determined to unravel that mystery.
Lost in thought, I turn a corner and find myself in a room I haven’t seen before. Rich mahogany bookshelves line the walls, a large desk dominates one end, and a fireplace takes up much of another wall. With a start, I realize this must be Luca’s private office.
I freeze, remembering my father’s strict rule—never enter a man’s office without explicit permission.
Bianca would have scoffed at such a rule, but I’ve always been the obedient one. I’m about to leave when something catches my eye.
Above the fireplace hangs a photograph. Three people, smiling widely at the camera. I step closer, my heart pounding. It’s Luca, much younger, maybe ten or eleven. His arms are thrown around a beautiful woman with auburn hair and his expressive eyes. Behind them stands a man, his hand resting proudly on Luca’s shoulder, his dark hair so similar to Luca’s.
They look… happy. Carefree. Nothing like the cold, angry man I married.
A lump forms in my throat as I stare at the photo. What happened to them? Why aren’t they here with Luca? The questions pile up, adding to the mystery that is my husband.
Realizing I’ve lingered too long, I hurry out of the office. My mind is whirling with everything I’ve learned today.
Luca, it seems, is more than just the charming facade he showed on the terrace or the cold, calculating man who married me. There’s a depth to him, a history I’m only beginning to uncover.
As the day winds down, I find myself drawn to the library. Books have always been my sanctuary, and Luca’s collection is impressive, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound tomes, comfortable reading nooks tucked into corners, and a grand piano by the window.
It’s a bibliophile’s dream .
I run my fingers along the spines, recognizing beloved classics and intriguing new titles. For the first time since I arrived here, I feel a sense of peace.
This room, at least, feels like home.
I’m so engrossed in examining the books that I don’t hear the doors open. It’s only when they slam shut that I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat.
Luca stands there, his face a mask of fury. His eyes, usually so controlled, blaze with an anger that makes me take an involuntary step back.
“Come with me,” he commands, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”
Terror floods through me, my earlier musings about understanding him vanishing in the face of his rage. As I follow him out of the library, my mind races. What have I done wrong? Is this about being in his office earlier?
But even as fear grips me, a small part of my mind can’t help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.
Something has happened, something beyond my imagined transgressions.
As we climb the stairs, heading toward our bedroom, I steal glances at Luca’s profile. The man I saw in that photograph, the happy child with his loving parents, seems a million miles away from the furious creature beside me now.
What happened to you, Luca Strambo? And why do I find myself wanting to understand, even as I fear what that understanding might bring?
The bedroom door looms before us, and Luca throws it open with such force that it bangs against the wall. He strides in, and I follow, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he must be able to hear it.
“Luca,” I begin, hating how my voice trembles slightly. “What’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?”
He whirls to face me, and the look in his eyes makes me take an involuntary step back. There’s anger there, yes, but beneath it… pain.
Raw, agonizing pain that makes my heart clench in sympathy despite my fear.
“This isn’t about you ,” he growls, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is about the Sicuras. About what they’ve taken from me.”
I take a tentative step toward him, drawn by the anguish in his voice. “What did they take, Luca? Please, help me understand.”
For a moment, just a moment, I see his walls crumble. The mask of cold indifference slips, revealing a vulnerability that takes my breath away. But then it’s gone, replaced by a coldness that sends a shiver down my spine.
What happened to him today?