86 | I will take back what's mine
The drawing room glows with the late afternoon sun, its heavy curtains parted to let the sun spill over the polished floor, illuminating the two mannequins at the center like statues from a dream.
My dress, a crimson ball gown, dark as wine, with a fitted corset and a skirt that flows like a river of silk, stands beside Luciano's suit, a matching dark red, tailored to his frame, paired with a black mask etched with subtle vines.
They're perfect, a testament to the Shakespearean theme I've chosen for the Costa Ball, all mystical vibes and tragic romance, a mirror of the love we share.
I stand before them, my gold ring catching the light, my heart swelling at the thought of us matching, stepping into the night as one, Mr. and Mrs. Costa.
But beneath the thrill, a shadow lingers, a nagging unease that's been growing for three weeks, tainting even this moment.
Luciano's been... different. Not in his love, that's as fierce as ever, his kisses searing my lips, his fingers wrapping my wrist to count my pulse, grounding me like always.
But there's a distance in his eyes like he's carrying something heavy, something he won't share.
He's been slipping out at odd hours, returning with dirt on his cuffs or shadows on his face, brushing it off with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
I trust him but the secrecy stings.
I trace the gown's lace, picturing the night, us dancing under starlit chandeliers, my crimson skirts swirling, his mask framing the eyes that burn for me, and I want to believe it'll be enough, that I'm overthinking, that he's just stressed, hunting the enemy who's haunted me with videos and texts.
Therapy's helping, Dr. Navarro's guiding me through PTSD and BPD, teaching me to breathe through the panic, to tame the storms.
I shake my head, trying to focus, to hold onto the gown, the ball, the love that's my anchor, but it's there, persistent, a whisper I can't silence.
A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts and Lina, one of the planners, steps in, her arms full of fabric swatches but her face curious.
"Aurelia," she says, her voice light, "a package just arrived for you. It's on the table by the door."
I blink, surprise cutting through the fog.
"A package?" I ask, my brow furrowing, because I wasn't expecting anything, not with the ball so close, every detail already in motion.
She nods, setting her swatches down.
"Yeah, no sender listed, just your name. I've got to head to the ballroom, but let me know if you need anything." She flashes a smile and slips out, her heels clicking, leaving me alone with the mannequins and a sudden prickle of unease.
I cross to the table, my heart picking up, and there is a small box, my name scrawled in black ink, no address.
My fingers hesitate, but I push forward, curiosity outweighing caution.
I open it, the cardboard giving way to reveal a folded note, its edges stained dark, like rust or blood.
My stomach twists, a cold dread creeping in, and I unfold the letter, the words stark against the paper, written in a deep, glistening red: I will take back what's mine.