Otilla.
Otilla D'Este had always known when something threatened her.
Not loudly.
Not obviously.
Danger never arrived screaming—it slipped in quietly, carrying pastries in a cardboard box and lowering its eyes at the gate.
She stood at her bedroom window, watching the street below long after the girl had gone.
Isabella Rossi.
The name tasted unpleasant in her mouth. Ordinary. Forgettable. And yet—
"She looked at him," Otilla murmured.
Not boldly. Not flirtatiously.
But with warmth.
Otilla hated warmth. It made people reckless.
She turned away from the window and sat at her vanity, studying her reflection. Perfect posture. Perfect skin. The kind of face people trusted simply because it belonged to power.
Xavier Hernandez had looked at the girl the way men looked at exits when they were trapped.
Otilla's fingers tightened around her brush.
He was hers.
Not in the way fools thought love worked—but in the way systems worked. He existed within her father's walls, under her father's command. Which meant he belonged to her world.
And that girl—
She did not.
Otilla smiled to herself.
She did not need to destroy the girl.
Not yet.
All she needed was to remind everyone of their place.
Isabella
The next delivery came three days later.
Isabella told herself she didn't care who stood at the gate.
She lied.
Her heart stumbled when she saw him again—standing exactly where he had been before, like nothing had changed. Like the world hadn't tilted slightly off its axis the moment he had looked at her.
"Good afternoon," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice.
"Good afternoon," Xavier replied.
A pause.
Too long to be professional. Too short to be intimate.
"How is the shop?" he asked, surprising them both.
Isabella blinked. "Busy. It's always busy before the weekend."
"That's good," he said. Then, quieter, "It must be… tiring."
She smiled before she could stop herself. "It is."
The gate buzzed open.
This time, he didn't tell her to wait.
They walked side by side toward the entrance, not touching, but aware of the space between them like a held breath.
"She doesn't usually come out herself," Isabella said softly.
Xavier stiffened. "Miss D'Este?"
"Yes."
"She notices everything," Isabella added, not accusing—just stating a fact.
He glanced at her, searching her face. "You noticed."
Isabella shrugged lightly. "People like her always do."
They stopped at the door.
For a moment, neither moved.
"I'll take it from here," Xavier said, though his voice lacked finality.
Isabella hesitated. "Thank you."
She turned to leave.
"Isabella," he said.
She looked back.
"I'm Xavier."
Something fragile settled between them.
"Nice to meet you," she said, and meant more than the words allowed.
She walked away without looking back.
Xavier did not move until she was gone.
And from the upper window—
Otilla watched everything.
Otilla
So.
They spoke.
Otilla's lips curved slowly.
That was all she needed to know.
She turned from the window and reached for her phone.
"Papa?" she said sweetly when he answered.
"Yes, everything is fine."
A pause.
"No, nothing urgent. I just wanted to ask—how long do transfers usually take for guards?"
Another pause.
Her smile sharpened.
"I see," she said. "That's reassuring."
She hung up.
Some people thought power was loud.
Otilla knew better.
Power was a whisper that decided where someone would be standing next week—and where they would no longer be allowed to stand at all.
And Xavier Hernandez?
He was already standing on borrowed ground.
The late afternoon sun leaned low when Isabella returned again.
This time, the box was heavier.
"Sorry," she said breathlessly when she reached the gate. "We had a rush."
Xavier shook his head. "You don't need to apologize."
He opened the gate, slower than usual.
They walked together again.
Neither commented on it.
The silence between them felt… intentional now.
"How old are you?" Xavier asked suddenly, then immediately frowned. "I mean—sorry. That was abrupt."
Isabella laughed softly. "It's alright. Twenty-one."
He exhaled. "Good."
She raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
He cleared his throat. "I meant—old enough to be doing this alone. Deliveries. Work."
"I don't really have a choice," she said simply. "My brother is still in school. Someone has to help."
"Your parents?"
"My father's hands shake when he's tired. My mother pretends not to notice."
Her voice didn't break.
That scared him more than if it had.
They reached the side entrance, away from the front door this time.
He stopped walking.
"You don't have to come further," he said.
She nodded—but didn't leave.
Instead, she leaned against the stone wall, careful not to wrinkle her apron.
"You're not from here," she said.
"No."
"Spain?"
He smiled faintly. "Close enough."
"Why Italy?"
A pause.
"Because the military told me to be," he replied.
She studied his face, the way his jaw set when he spoke about it.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"I like… order," he said after a moment. "Rules. They make things simple."
Isabella smiled sadly. "Nothing is simple."
He looked at her then—really looked.
"You're right," he said quietly.
They stood there, not touching, not crossing the line—but standing far too close for two people who had just met.
From somewhere inside the house, footsteps echoed.
Isabella straightened immediately.
"I should go."
"Yes."
But neither moved.
"Xavier," she said.
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
He frowned. "Of what?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing."
That was a lie.
She walked away.
Xavier watched her go, knowing he would remember this conversation forever—despite how desperately it was meant to be forgotten.
And upstairs—
Otilla D'Este shattered a glass against the wall.
Otila
So.
They were speaking alone now.
Otilla stared at the broken glass, her chest rising too quickly.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was insult.
She had given Xavier structure. Purpose. Protection.
And he was repaying it by leaning toward a girl who smelled of sugar and poverty.
Otilla bent slowly and picked up a shard, ignoring the way it cut her finger.
She smiled at the blood.
"Alright," she whispered.
"Let's correct this."