The mansion was a maze, and Aria was beginning to learn its rhythm. The days moved with a precision that unnerved her: guards rotating shifts like clockwork, staff appearing and disappearing without sound, meals served at the same exact minute as the day before. The house breathed with Lorenzo's control, every hallway polished into submission, every door either locked or left conspicuously open. Yet for all its grandeur—the gold-framed mirrors, the marble floors, the chandeliers glittering like captive stars—there were corners that whispered. Shadows where secrets lingered.
That evening, after another silent dinner where Lorenzo had spoken little and watched much, Aria found herself restless. The rules sat folded in her drawer like a curse, the ring on her finger burned like a brand, and her vow not to break pulsed louder than the ticking of the clock. She couldn't sit idle, not when every instinct screamed at her to know more. If she was trapped here, then knowledge was her only weapon.
She slipped from her room when the halls were quieter, her bare feet silent against the rug-lined floor. The air smelled faintly of smoke and polish, the kind of scent that never quite left an old house. She passed portraits—stern men with hawk eyes, women draped in jewels, all of them looking down at her as though daring her to trespass. The deeper she went, the less familiar it became. Corridors narrowed, the décor grew older, more austere. She turned corners carefully, pressing herself against the wall when she heard the distant echo of footsteps.
Then she found it.
A heavy door, darker than the rest, its brass handle worn by use. The kind of door that didn't invite entry, but demanded it. A study, she guessed. She hesitated, her heart thudding, but something stronger than fear pulled her forward. She turned the handle slowly, surprised when it gave without resistance, and slipped inside.
The study smelled different—less like the rest of the mansion, more like a man's private world. Smoke clung to the air, mingling with leather and ink. The walls were lined with shelves groaning beneath books and ledgers, titles in Italian and English, some bound in cracked leather, others pristine and new. A massive desk dominated the center, papers stacked neatly, a crystal decanter of amber liquor catching the firelight from the hearth.
Aria's breath caught. This wasn't just any room. This was his room.
She moved cautiously, her eyes scanning the surfaces, her fingers itching but unwilling to touch. There were files, maps, documents she couldn't begin to decipher. She wanted to reach for them, to know what threads of power and danger stretched from this desk into the world beyond. But something else caught her eye first.
On a side table, half-hidden beneath a stack of folders, was a small silver frame.
Aria reached for it almost without thinking, sliding it carefully from beneath the papers. Her breath stilled as her gaze fell on the photograph inside.
A boy.
Lorenzo.
He couldn't have been more than ten, his hair messy, his suit slightly too big, his eyes startlingly the same—dark, intense, but softer, unguarded. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he stood, his hand resting awkwardly on the shoulder of an older man beside him. A father, perhaps. The resemblance was clear. But it wasn't the man that held her attention. It was the boy. The boy who would grow into the man who now held her captive.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Because here, in this single image, Lorenzo wasn't the cold, mocking figure who had humiliated her, married her in chains, and pinned her against a wall with words like weapons. He was just a child, uncertain, human.
She traced the edge of the frame with her thumb, her chest tightening with something she didn't want to name. Pity? Curiosity? Dangerous feelings, all of them. But once seen, the image branded itself in her mind.
A sound jolted her—footsteps, closer now, purposeful.
Aria nearly dropped the frame. She set it back hastily, sliding it beneath the folders as though burying the evidence of her trespass. Her pulse raced as she darted toward the shelves, pretending to examine the spines of books. The door creaked open behind her.
She froze.
The footsteps stopped, the air thickened, and she felt it before she heard it—the weight of his presence filling the room.
"Looking for something, wife?"
The words rolled through the air, low and smooth, laced with a dangerous amusement.
Aria's stomach dropped, her hand still resting on the spine of a book she hadn't even read the title of. Slowly, she turned.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway, his suit jacket undone, his tie loosened, shadows carving his features into something both devastating and terrifying. His gaze flicked from her hand to the desk, then back to her face. He wasn't angry—not yet. But he was watching her the way a predator watches prey that thinks it's hidden.
Her throat tightened, but she forced her chin up, refusing to cower. "I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I was exploring."
His mouth curved, faint and sharp. "Exploring," he repeated, as though savoring the word. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed louder in the silence than any slam could have.
Aria's breath quickened. She knew he didn't believe her. She knew he had caught her in a place she shouldn't be, near secrets she wasn't meant to touch. And yet, she refused to look away.
Because for the first time, she wasn't only thinking of herself. She was thinking of that boy in the photograph. The boy who had looked so unlike the man before her.