Chapter 16
LILIANA
The car pulls through the gates just as the first light of morning starts to soften the edges of the estate.
The sky is pale, washed in gold, the kind of morning that feels almost unreal after the night we’ve had.
We didn’t come home last night. We stayed in the lounge at the club, tucked away from the world, the hours passing in a haze of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.
By the time we step inside, the house is still and hushed. Giovanni doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach his room. There’s no discussion of separate spaces, no pause at the door to my own. His world moves forward with an ease I’ve stopped trying to resist.
He strips off his jacket, his cufflinks, the shirt that still smells faintly of the night, before pulling me down beside him.
The bed is warm in seconds, the covers cocooning us from the pale light seeping through the curtains.
I sink into him, his chest solid under my cheek, his hand resting low at my back like it belongs there.
The world feels far away here.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, our breaths falling into the same rhythm, the silence a steady thing that doesn’t need breaking.
He doesn’t sleep right away, though. His fingers trace idle patterns at my hip, slow, deliberate.
I keep my eyes closed, but I feel him looking at me, the weight of his gaze quiet but certain.
At some point, sleep does take me, warm and heavy, with his arm still draped over me.
When I wake, the room smells faintly of coffee.
The light has shifted, brighter now, spilling across the bed.
Giovanni is still there, propped against the headboard, his hair slightly tousled, his shirt open at the collar.
His arm tightens slightly when I stir, the faintest pressure drawing me closer again.
There’s a knock at the door, soft but certain, and Maria steps in a moment later with a tray in her hands. The smell of fresh bread and eggs follows her. She sets the tray down on the table near the window, her eyes flicking toward Giovanni briefly before she glances at me.
She doesn’t linger, only nods once before slipping back out, the door clicking softly behind her.
Giovanni waits until she’s gone before reaching for the tray. He brings it to the bed, setting it between us. I shift to sit up, the blankets still pulled around me.
“Breakfast in bed,” he says lightly, his voice touched with something that almost sounds like amusement.
I glance at him, my hands moving just enough to sign a quiet Thank you.
He watches my hands for a moment, then nods, a faint curve at his mouth. “Eat,” he says, breaking off a piece of bread and setting it on my plate before pouring coffee into two cups.
I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me. He’s already cutting into his eggs, his movements deliberate, precise. His attention shifts back to me as we eat, his gaze holding steady like he’s more focused on me than the food.
He talks as we eat, his voice low, even.
About the meeting he has later in the afternoon.
About something Tomasso told him last week.
About the work he left undone yesterday.
He doesn’t dress it up, doesn’t try to make it something it isn’t.
It’s just conversation, the kind that slips easily into the quiet space between us.
I listen, my hands moving occasionally to respond when he glances at me as though expecting a thought, a word, even a small acknowledgment. Sometimes I just nod. Sometimes I sign something brief. He watches every time, his eyes following the shape of my hands, his attention undivided.
He’s different here, in the stillness of his own room. His voice is less sharp, his posture looser. There’s none of the calculation he wears in public, none of the cold precision that marks him everywhere else.
I think about the night before, about the way he stepped in front of me without hesitation, the way his voice changed when he introduced me. I think about the way he looked at me then, and the way he looks at me now.
It’s disarming, how easy it feels. How natural.
We finish eating, the plates pushed to the side, the coffee cups still half-full. He stays close, his arm resting along the back of the bed, his fingers brushing my shoulder occasionally as he talks.
I find myself watching his mouth as he speaks, the even rhythm of his words. I realize at some point that I’ve stopped thinking about what he might mean by all of this, about what it might cost.
For now, it’s just him. And me. And the kind of quiet I never thought I’d find here.
The morning drifts on. The light shifts again, warmer now, spilling in golden strips across the floor. Giovanni’s phone buzzes once on the table. He doesn’t move at first, his gaze still on me. Then he sighs quietly, reaching for it.
A glance at the screen, and I know what it means.
“I have to go,” he says after a moment, his voice low, the words deliberate. His hand brushes mine, not quite letting go.
I nod, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
He watches me for a beat longer before standing, buttoning his shirt, straightening his cuffs. He looks at me once more before heading to the door.
“I won’t be gone long,” he says, and then he’s gone, the quiet settling in around me again.
The room still feels warm, the faint scent of coffee lingering. I curl back into the bed, my thoughts circling the same truth I’ve been avoiding.
Maybe he really does want me here. And maybe, just maybe, he means it.
The thought lingers as the morning drifts on, curling into every quiet space around me. I stay in his room longer than I mean to, the warmth of the bed and the faint scent of him still clinging to the sheets. It feels like a cocoon I don’t want to leave, but eventually, the stillness presses in.
I rise slowly, the floor cool beneath my bare feet as I gather my things. The clock on the mantel edges toward noon, the light spilling through the curtains warmer now, streaking across the room in muted gold.
The shower is quick but unhurried, the steam rising around me, carrying away the traces of the night before. The water is hot, steady against my skin, grounding me. By the time I step out, the mirror is fogged, my hair damp against my shoulders, the faint scent of lavender soap clinging to me.
I dress simply, smoothing the fabric into place, my movements quiet in the stillness.
When I leave the room, the estate feels different without him at my side. The halls are wide and hushed, sunlight spilling in long strips through the tall windows, the air carrying the faint trace of fresh flowers from somewhere beyond.
I move toward the garden without thinking, drawn by the promise of air and open space. The moment I step outside, the shift is immediate. The sunlight spreads across the stone path, warm against my skin. The trimmed hedges stand tall, their leaves bright in the light.
The garden is hushed, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The roses hold the last traces of dew, their petals open and full. I walk further along the path, my hand brushing lightly against the edges of the hedge, the scent of green and earth rising faintly around me.
It feels different out here—clearer, lighter. The weight of the house falls away behind me, and for the moment, it’s just the quiet pull of the garden ahead.
I take the longer path, the one that curves past the fountain before circling back toward the roses. The sound of water is soft, steady, folding into the stillness of the garden.
I am almost at the far edge when the rhythm changes. The quiet no longer feels untouched.
Camilla’s voice carries before she comes into view, low and smooth, threaded with that calculated sweetness I have learned to recognize. It is enough to set my steps slowing, my pulse tightening in my chest.
I should run, avoid her, but she's already there, standing near the curve of the hedge, her posture perfect, her eyes fixed on me in a way that feels deliberate.
“Liliana,” she says, her tone warm enough to sound pleasant to someone who doesn’t know better. “You do love your walks in the garden, don't you? It's almost as if you’re avoiding the parts of the house where you don’t belong.”
Her tone is light, but the undercurrent is the same as always. A reminder that she thinks she belongs here more than I do.
I don’t stop walking. I don’t answer her. My silence is the only shield I have.
She closes the space between us with unhurried precision, her eyes drifting over me like she’s cataloging every detail, weighing and discarding each one as though she already knows the verdict.
“I have to hand it to you,” she says, her voice smooth, carrying that false warmth that hides the bite beneath. “You’ve learned how to look the part. The dress, the posture, the carefully arranged face… almost enough to make someone forget where you came from, what you really are. Almost.”
Her gaze drops, deliberate, to the ring on my finger. A glint catches in her smile, sharp enough to cut. “I suppose anyone can wear the crown, if they can hold it still long enough for no one to notice how it’s slipping.”
The words land with a clean precision. She pauses, letting them linger in the space between us, her head tilting slightly as though she’s waiting—watching for the smallest crack where her words might take root.
The air feels closer, heavier. I shift, meaning to move past her, but another voice slices into the moment.
“Camilla.”
Alba’s tone is calm, but it carries weight. She steps into view from a side corridor, her presence quiet but commanding, her gaze steady and cool. I have no idea when she arrived, but I'm grateful for her here.
The look she directs to Camilla is the kind of look that doesn’t need volume to hit its mark. “That will be enough.”
Camilla’s smile holds, but it tightens, the edge visible now. “I was only speaking to her,” she says, smooth as before, though there’s a faint strain at the edges of her voice.