Chapter 8 #2
I decide on leaving it down, brushing it back while still damp. I slip on a pair of black leather sandals, easy to traipse the estate with.
I proceed out of the room, and I cautiously descend the stairs, hoping he’s gone, praying I won’t have to see him yet.
Lord knows I can't face him yet. The portraits of the Renzetti ancestors glare down at me as I pass through the hallway that connects to the dining room, and I wonder if they see through me and wonder at how foolish I am.
When I reach the dining area, relief washes over me. He’s not here. Only a server stands near the door, and she greets me with a polite nod before motioning to the table already set.
Lunch is a light affair—pasta al pomodoro, fresh mozzarella, thin slices of prosciutto, and a crisp fennel salad drizzled with lemon and olive oil. There’s chilled sparkling water, too, served with a slice of blood orange.
I eat slowly. Each bite is a reminder of just how exceptional Giovanni’s staff are.
Their attention to detail borders on reverence.
I close my eyes briefly, savoring the way the tomatoes burst with sweetness on my tongue.
It’s easy, in this moment, to forget everything. Easy to pretend I’m someone else.
When I finish, I thank the servers, and afterwards, I leave the dining room. Not leave, really—flee, because I still can't face Giovanni yet.
I make my way toward the gardens. I remember them vaguely from the day I arrived, but I didn’t take them in properly then.
The path opens into a manicured sprawl of hedges and flowerbeds.
Vines curl around trellises. There are roses, of course.
Every Italian estate seems to favor them.
But there are others, too. Wild geraniums, soft lavender, tall stalks of bellflower.
Bees hum somewhere behind me. The smell of citrus lingers in the air.
It’s quieter here than in my father’s gardens. Less staged. Less trimmed within an inch of its life. This one breathes, but it doesn't feel lived in.
Perhaps, I can make it home.
I’m just beginning to appreciate the symmetry of the arrangement when Tomasso appears from around the corner. He’s dressed in a dark polo and slacks, casual for him.
“Signora,” he greets with a smile. “Out enjoying the sun?”
I nod politely. Then sign. It’s a lovely day.
His eyes flick to my hands and back to my face. He signs back. It is. You look... rested.
I smile faintly. He’s kind. He makes me feel less insignificant.
Giovanni had told me to let Tomasso know if I needed anything. I think of asking where he is. Perhaps, I should apologize for this morning. The words build in my throat, but I don’t sign them. I don’t know how to.
Instead, I raise my hands to sign again. The garden is beautiful.
He glances around, a proud smile on his face. It's one of his favourite places.
I didn't need to find out that we have something in common. I can't form an emotional attachment to him more than I already have. I'll be doing myself a great disservice.
I pause, my hands faltering, but Tomasso seems to read something in my silence. He offers a small, understanding nod and says, “He had a meeting to attend. Business.”
And just like that, the thread of hope snaps. He didn’t ask after me. He didn’t come. He left. Of course. He’s moved on. Meanwhile, I’m here, unraveling at the speed of light.
I nod again, politely, and thank him. He bows his head politely and walks off.
I continue to the garden.
Three gardeners tend the hedges near the fountain. One clips at a cluster of lavender, the others bent low over a bed of marigolds. When they see me, they pause and curtsy. I smile at them in return.
I keep walking, letting the sweet scent and quiet carry me deeper into the path.
A heel clicks behind me, and I turn swiftly to behold whoever it is.
Camilla.
A smile is already spreading across her mouth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of smile that coils. She’d been pleasant when we first met. Too pleasant. I'd seen through the polished, elegant, courteous greeting. I'd suspected it was for Giovanni’s sake.
I wasn't wrong.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” she says, her gaze flicking over me, pausing at my bare hands. I'd left my wedding band in my room. Is that a smile of triumph I see on her face? She continues. “Though I imagine it must be exhausting, pretending this is something real.”
I stay still. My fingers hover midair. I don't sign. I'd meant to. But now, I'm frozen on the spot.
She steps closer, her heels clicking on the stone path, her perfume thick and expensive. I hold my breath. She doesn’t look away from me. “Do you even understand what you’ve gotten yourself into? Or are you just so grateful someone finally wanted you?”
I blink. Her words are cruel. They're up there with the vile words my father throws at me. I don't even know her, and she hates me this much.
Her smile widens. “You think he married you out of affection? Oh, you sweet summer child.” She lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “You are convenient. Nothing more. A body to warm his sheets. A mute, pliant thing that can’t even talk back.”
My hands twitch, but I can’t move them. I can’t respond. Not because I don’t know how—but because there’s nothing to say. Nothing that won’t sound like denial.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Did you really think he’d want this? A broken little thing with nothing to offer but obedience and silence? That he’d choose you over women who actually have... worth?”
Each word lands like a stone in my chest. Not screamed. Not spat. Just... said. Cold and clean and awful.
I try to breathe. Try to lift my hands. Try to say anything at all. But they hang limply at my sides. She’s not saying anything I haven’t already told myself in a chastising voice.
Camilla watches me for a moment longer, then steps even closer. Her breath brushes my cheek. Her eyes are devoid of feeling, twin pools of vitriol. “He’ll grow tired of you. He always does. When he does, you’ll wish you’d kept some dignity.”
Then she turns and walks off. I watch as her figure melts back into the villa’s distance. Still, I don’t move. I can't.
The gardeners pretend not to notice. One of them keeps clipping lavender like she didn’t hear. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she did.
The silence is haunting. The seconds trickle down to just this moment, with the deafening roar in my ears.
I wrap my arms around myself. Not from cold, but from something deeper. I press my palms into my ribs like they’re the only things keeping me upright.
I should be angry. I should hate her, but I don’t. Because the worst part isn’t that she said those things. The worst part is that I believe her.
I believe that I’m nothing more than a quiet shadow Giovanni let into his home. That last night was just a moment of convenience, a release, a transaction of skin and heat and nothing else. That I offered myself and he took, and now... now I’m just here, lingering like an aftertaste.
My chest hurts. Not in the way it did earlier. This is a different ache. A brutal one. Shame prickles up my spine, my cheeks hot with something akin to humiliation. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just stand there, surrounded by sunlight and roses and strangers.
I let her words settle. Let them rot. Let them mingle with the cruel voice that has replaced the quiet in my head.