The rumors began as whispers, faint enough that Aria thought she imagined them, until they grew into the kind of shadows that stalked her wherever she went. Servants shifted uncomfortably in the hallways when she passed, guards exchanged glances when she dared to speak in front of Lorenzo, and at dinners—those long, suffocating dinners where her presence was always a test—she caught the pointed looks of men twice her age, their sneers curling into accusations without words. She controls him. She bends him. She dares to whisper in the Don's ear.
It was absurd, she told herself. She was trapped, collared in a gilded cage of marble and chandeliers, her days dictated by the man who had stolen her freedom. How could they possibly believe she held sway over him? Yet the more she denied it, the more the world seemed determined to force that narrative upon her. And she began to notice the way Lorenzo stiffened in meetings whenever her name was invoked, the way his voice turned sharp as glass when his loyalty to the family was questioned. The irony burned her throat like acid: for weeks she had fought against him, fought against the weight of his control, and now, the world insisted she was the one pulling his strings.
The rumors reached their peak during a council gathering, when the great hall filled with smoke, polished shoes, and the clinking of crystal. Men who had carved their empires in blood sat at the long table, their voices rising in tense debate about territories, betrayals, and balance of power. But when Aria entered at Lorenzo's side, the conversation shifted like a blade's edge. She felt it, the way the air condensed, the way all eyes turned to her, assessing, judging, condemning. She wanted to shrink back, but she refused them that satisfaction. Instead, she lifted her chin, forcing her legs not to tremble as she took her place slightly behind Lorenzo, the dutiful wife in her gilded role.
It wasn't enough.
One of the elders leaned forward, his voice oily with accusation. "We've heard troubling things, Lorenzo. That you've gone soft. That your… wife"—he spat the word as though it were poison—"speaks where she shouldn't, acts where she isn't wanted." He smirked, his gaze sliding to Aria. "They say she has your ear, and through you, your hand. They say the great De Luca empire bows to a girl."
The room erupted in mutters, snickers, and sharp intakes of breath. Aria's pulse thundered in her ears, but Lorenzo didn't flinch. His expression remained carved from stone, his voice steady when he replied. "They say much, old man. The day I let gossip dictate my rule will be the day I fall."
But the words, however strong, could not undo the damage.
The council pressed harder. They spoke of loyalty, of image, of the perception of weakness. They reminded Lorenzo of the brutal code that bound them all: wives were meant to stand silent, invisible shadows. And yet here was Aria—visible, defiant, impossible to ignore.
The tension thickened as another elder, colder, sharper than the rest, leaned in. "We'll be plain, Lorenzo. Control her, or remove her. Before she becomes your downfall."
Aria felt the blood drain from her face, though she forced herself to remain upright, her mask unbroken. She didn't look at Lorenzo, couldn't, because the weight of their gazes was enough to crush her. It was one thing to be despised, another entirely to be labeled a liability.
The meeting ended with threats unspoken but heavy in the air, and when they left the hall, Aria could no longer hold her tongue. "They think I control you?" she hissed once they were alone, her voice sharp enough to slice through the silence. "When you've done nothing but lock me in a cage, strip me of choices, and remind me that I am nothing but a debt?"
He turned on her then, his eyes blazing, though whether with anger at her words or at the men who dared to question him, she couldn't tell. "This is not a game, Aria," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Rumors like these kill faster than bullets. They see weakness where there is none, and if I don't prove them wrong—" He broke off, jaw clenched, as though speaking the rest aloud would make it real.
Her chest ached, fury and fear warring within her. "So what then? What will you do? Prove them wrong by silencing me?"
The words hung between them like a curse. For a heartbeat, she thought he might strike, or worse, confess. Instead, he turned away, his hands flexing at his sides, his silence more damning than anything he could have said.
That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the meeting in her mind. She had thought she understood the stakes of her entrapment, but now she saw the wider battlefield. She wasn't just a prisoner in Lorenzo's house—she was the weapon they would use to unmake him, or the weakness that would cost him everything.
And then came the final blow.
Two nights later, he returned from another council meeting, his expression darker than she had ever seen it. His tie was loosened, his knuckles bruised as though he'd bloodied them against a wall or worse. He poured himself a drink, downed it in one swallow, and then looked at her with eyes that burned like coals.
"They gave me an ultimatum," he said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual icy composure.
Her breath caught. She didn't want to ask, didn't want to know, but the silence pressed her until the words fell from her lips anyway. "What ultimatum?"
He held her gaze, unblinking, unmerciful. "Kill my wife, or lose my power."
The glass in his hand shattered under the force of his grip, crimson seeping into his palm from the shards, but he didn't flinch. Aria couldn't breathe. The walls of the gilded cage seemed to close in around her, the weight of those words sinking into her bones. There it was—the truth, stark and lethal. She was no longer just his prisoner. She was his choice. His sacrifice or his rebellion.
And whichever path he chose, it would burn them both.