Chapter 16 #3
I draw one breath, then another, willing my body to still.
When I open the door, I expect the hallway to be empty. It isn’t.
Alba stands a few paces away, her posture as composed as ever, her gaze fixed on me in a way that feels precise. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The weight of her attention says more than any words could.
And she isn’t alone. Giovanni is beside her. His eyes lock on me the moment the door opens. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly, the cool calculation I’ve come to recognize giving way to something sharper. He steps forward without hesitation.
His hand comes up, cupping my face, his palm warm against my cheek. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite name, but it settles into me like heat all the same.
The fear in my chest is a thread pulled too tight. I know it must show, so I move quickly, my hands lifting before he can press further. I’m fine. Just dizzy.
His eyes search mine as though he doesn’t quite believe me. The pause stretches. Then he leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to my forehead. The gesture is brief, grounding, but it makes my breath catch.
Before he can say anything else, before the weight of his attention can press further, I step back. My hands lower to my sides, my head bowing faintly, and then I move past them both.
Neither of them stops me.
The walk back to my room feels longer than it should. The garden’s air still clings faintly to my skin, the scent of greenery and sunlight carried with me even here.
The rest of the day folds in on itself. I stay in my room. Giovanni doesn’t return to me right away, and I don’t seek him out. The earlier tension hangs like a quiet echo, his voice, Alba’s silence, Camilla’s words, all of it circling the edges of my mind.
By evening, the light has shifted. The sun is low, the pale warmth in my room fading into softer gold. The air feels still, heavier than it should.
A soft knock sounds against my door before it opens just enough to let Maria step inside.
She moves with her usual quiet efficiency, a tray balanced neatly in her hands.
The faint scent of warm bread and coffee drifts into the room as she sets it down on the table near the window.
Her movements are smooth, unobtrusive, as though she intends to be gone before I can speak.
I watch her in silence, my pulse steady but heavy in my ears.
It’s only when she turns to leave that I move. My hand lifts before I think better of it. I sign her name, my fingers shaping it slowly.
She looks at me at once, her expression calm, waiting.
My hands move again, the signs careful, precise, deliberate. A request I don’t want overseen, one that sits like a stone in my chest.
Her gaze shifts faintly as she reads the shapes of my fingers, but there’s no hesitation. She gives one small nod, as simple as if I had asked her to bring more tea. There are no questions. No change in her voice when she says, “Of course.”
And then she slips out as quietly as she came, the door closing with a muted click that seems louder in the stillness she leaves behind.
The room feels smaller without her. The air feels thick.
I stay seated on the edge of the bed, my hands still in my lap. My eyes fix on the door though I can’t hear her return yet. Every second stretches until I lose count of them.
When she comes back, her knock is lighter than before.
She doesn’t wait for me to call out. The door opens, and she steps inside carrying a small paper bag.
Her expression hasn’t changed. If she feels the weight of what she’s brought, she doesn’t show it.
She sets it on the table and meets my eyes briefly.
There’s no judgement there. Just that steady, neutral look she wears so well. Then she leaves again without a sound.
The bag sits untouched for a long time. I don’t move. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow in a way that makes the edges of the room feel blurred.
Eventually, I rise.
The washroom feels too bright. The white tile reflects the light in a way that sharpens the air. Everything feels cleaner than I am, colder.
I take the small box from the bag with care, my fingers careful as though roughness could change the truth. The object feels heavier than it should, like the weight has shifted from my chest to my palm. They feel clammy. I feel the frantic thud in my chest.
It doesn’t take long before I stare at the box. The lines appear quickly, sharp against the pale background, leaving no room for doubt.
Positive.
The word seems to settle in my chest like a stone, heavy, unmovable.
I set the test on the counter, my hands braced against the cool marble. My reflection in the mirror meets my eyes, pale and still, the edges of it blurring when my breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
The silence presses in, sharper than the light. I don’t move. I don’t know how long I stand there.
The truth is in front of me, as clear and inescapable as the lines on the test. And it feels like something inside me has cracked straight through.