The decision was delivered to Aria not by Lorenzo himself but by one of the house staff, a woman with carefully schooled features and eyes that revealed nothing. Dinner had ended, the house was quieting, and Aria had been preparing herself for another night in the large guest room that had been hers since the marriage began. But when the maid appeared at her door with folded sheets in her arms and said, "Signora, the Don requests that you move to his chambers tonight. It is necessary for appearances," Aria felt the air in her lungs turn sharp and thin.
Appearances. That word followed her like a curse in this place. Appearances dictated the clothes she wore, the way she walked beside him, the words she could or could not say in front of others. And now appearances demanded she lie beside him in the most intimate of spaces, not as a wife might by choice, but as a possession displayed to quell suspicion. She did not argue—what would have been the point? Resistance would only confirm weakness, and weakness was blood in the water here.
The door to his bedroom was heavier than hers, carved dark wood with brass fixtures that gleamed in the candlelight. Inside, the room was vast but austere: high ceilings, walls lined with heavy drapes, furniture that spoke of wealth without softness. The bed itself dominated the space, wide enough for two to sleep without ever touching, its sheets a dark gray that matched the man who ruled this cage. Lorenzo stood near the window when she entered, his silhouette framed against the pale spill of moonlight. He didn't turn immediately, as if he had been waiting for her to acknowledge the moment first.
When his gaze finally met hers, it was unreadable. "The elders have begun to question," he said simply. "They wonder why you sleep apart. Tonight, they will see you enter my room, and tomorrow they will believe what they must."
Aria's throat tightened, though she forced herself to keep her voice steady. "And what am I to believe, Lorenzo? That this is still a performance?"
His eyes flicked over her face, lingering a fraction too long on her mouth before he turned away, dismissing the question without words. He shed his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, then unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt with slow, deliberate movements. The intimacy of the gesture struck her harder than she wanted to admit; this was not the Lorenzo she knew at the head of a table or behind his desk. This was the man stripped of armor, down to fabric and skin. She turned quickly, unfastening her earrings, focusing on the tiny tasks so she wouldn't betray the heat rising in her chest.
They slipped into bed without ceremony, each occupying their own edge of the mattress. The silence stretched, heavy, punctuated only by the soft rhythm of their breathing. The distance between them was both vast and nonexistent. Aria lay stiffly on her side, her back to him, every nerve aware of his presence. She could feel the heat of him through the sheets, the quiet shift of his body as he settled. Every accidental brush of fabric, every change in the air when he moved, felt like a spark threatening to ignite something she had sworn to resist.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but her mind betrayed her. Images flickered behind her eyelids: the way his hand had brushed hers earlier that day, the way his voice had lowered when he told her that loyalty meant survival, the crack in his composure when he admitted she made him lose control. They haunted her, weaving through the silence until her breath came shallow, unsteady. She hated herself for noticing the rhythm of his breathing, for the way her body leaned unconsciously toward the warmth he radiated.
Hours slipped by, and slowly, his breathing changed. It grew heavier, uneven, carrying a roughness that wasn't rest but torment. Aria lay still, listening, her heart tightening as muffled words broke the quiet. His voice was low, ragged, filled with a desperation she had never heard in him before. At first, the words were indistinct, fragments torn from dreams too dark to name. But then, through the haze of his nightmare, one word came clear. One name.
Not hers.
The sound of it froze her blood. Another woman's name, whispered like a prayer, torn from his throat with anguish. Aria's chest constricted, the sheets suddenly heavy as chains. She stared into the dark, her heart pounding with a confusion she hated. Anger flared, sharp and bitter. Who was she to him, then? A wife in chains, a pawn, a mask for appearances? And who was the woman whose name could break through even the steel walls of his control?
She lay there, unmoving, caught between fury and something far worse: the hollow ache of jealousy she refused to acknowledge. The name lingered in the air long after his breathing evened, leaving Aria wide awake, her mind racing with questions that had no answers.
The night stretched endlessly, the distance between them more unbearable than closeness would have been. And as dawn crept slowly toward the windows, painting the walls with pale gray light, Aria knew the cage she lived in had just gained another lock—one carved not of iron, but of secrets whispered in the dark.