LINA'S POV
I slept alone.
The bed was massive, cold and empty. I stared at the ceiling until dawn, listening to unfamiliar sounds of guards changing shifts outside my door, distant traffic from the city below, the hum of security systems I couldn't see but knew were watching.
By the time morning light filtered through the curtains, I'd made a decision.
I needed to become Seraphina Moretti completely.
No more slipups. No more screaming that I was someone else.
I cringed thinking about the hospital. How hysterical I'd been and how I'd insisted I was Lina Hart, that I'd been murdered, that this was all some sick joke.
Dante thought I was insane. Everyone did but I had to fix that.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Come in," I called.
A young maid entered. She was maybe twenty and very pretty with her dark hair pulled back tight. Her uniform was pristine, but her eyes held something cold when she looked at me.
"Mrs. De Luca." She dipped her head but for some reason it seemed oddly sarcastic. "I'm here to help you prepare for breakfast."
"Thank you..."
"Elena."
"Thank you, Elena."
She worked efficiently, laying out clothes which consisted of a simple cream dress and dainty jewelry. When I sat at the vanity, she began working on my hair without asking what I wanted.
Her hands weren't gentle.
I watched her in the mirror as she brushed, noting the tight press of her lips, the way she avoided my eyes.
Hostile. Definitely hostile.
"How long have you worked here?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Three years."
"Do you like it?"
"It's a job." She tugged the brush through a tangle hard.
I winced.
"Sorry." But it sounded insincere.
I filed that away. Noted.
She gathered my hair and began weaving it into a low bun. Her movements were almost aggressive. When she reached for a bottle of oil, I caught the scent.
Cinnamon. I've never seen nor heard of cinnamon being put in the hair and it genuinely wasn't my preferred scent.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Hair oil, it helps makes it shine."
She worked it through before I could protest, fingers rubbing it into my scalp, my ends. The smell was strong, sweet and overwhelming.
A warning nagged inside me about this oil but I just couldn't place it.
Could it be from Seraphina's memory or something?
But I didn't know Seraphina's life or what she liked or didn't like.
So I said nothing.
When Elena finished, she stepped back. "You're ready, Mrs. De Luca. Breakfast is in the dining room. Mr. De Luca is already waiting."
Already waiting.
Great.
***
The dining room was large with a twenty-foot ceilings, crystal chandelier, a table that could seat thirty people easily.
Dante sat at the far end.
Of course he did.
He didn't look up when I entered. Just cut into his food as he continued reading something on his phone.
I hesitated, then started walking toward the chair next to him. When I got close enough, his eyes slowly lifted and pinned me with his cold gaze making me freeze.
He inclined his head toward the opposite end of the table specifically to the chair that sat twenty feet away.
My stomach dropped.
Slowly, I walked down the table and sat down alone. A plate was already waiting filled with fruit, toast, eggs I didn't want.
The first ten minutes passed in silence.
Just the sound of silverware on plates. The distance between us felt like miles.
I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit here like a stranger in my own marriage—fake as it was—while planning to use his connections for revenge.
I needed to build something. Anything.
"Did you sleep well?" I tried, voice too loud in the quiet.
Dante didn't look up. "Fine."
"The room is beautiful. Thank you for—"
"It's just a room."
I gripped my fork tight to calm myself then tried to again. "I was thinking maybe we could—"
"No." He set his phone down and finally looked at me. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Pretending." He leaned back in his chair. "Let me be very clear, Seraphina. We are married because our families required it. That is the extent of our relationship."
"I just thought we could—"
"What? Be friends?" A cruel expression filled his face. "Have breakfast conversations? Build a connection?"
"I—"
"Don't." He cut me off. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this is anything more than a business arrangement. I will never love you. I will never even like you. Friendship is not on the table. Do you understand?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat then nodded slowly
"Good. Now let me lay out some rules since you seem confused about your position here." He ticked them off like a checklist. "You're allowed to move freely within the house but certain areas are restricted like my office, the west wing, the basement. Don't test those boundaries."
"Okay."
"All your devices will be monitored from your laptop down to your phone. If you need something, ask the staff. If you want to leave the property, you notify me first and you'll have security with you. Non-negotiable."
"I'm a prisoner then."
"You're my wife. There's a difference." His tone suggested there wasn't. "You'll attend events with me when required. You'll smile, be polite, and not embarrass me. Beyond that, do whatever you want. Read. Shop. I don't care."
"How generous."
His eyes narrowed. "Would you prefer I lock you in your room?"
"No."
"Then I suggest you—" He stopped and frowned.
Then his expression changed as it darkened making the hair on my body stand. What's wrong? Did I speak out of turn?
"Why do you smell like cinnamon?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
I blinked. "What?"
"Cinnamon." He stood abruptly. "You KNOW I'm allergic. You know I can't stand the smell. Why the hell are you wearing it?"
"I'm not—I didn't—" Panic spiked. "The maid, Elena, she put oil in my hair. I didn't know—"
"You didn't know." He laughed bitterly. "Of course you didn't know. Just like you didn't know overdosing before our wedding would cause problems. Just like you didn't know screaming about being someone else would make you look insane."
"Dante, I swear I didn't—"
"Enough!" His hand slammed on the table so hard everything rattled.
I flinched.
"I warned you at the hospital." His voice shook with rage. "I told you I was done with your games and desperate attempts for attention."
"This wasn't—"
"First the suicide attempt. Then the amnesia act. Now this?" He grabbed his plate and hurled it at the wall.
It shattered. Glass and food rained down everywhere.
I couldn't breathe.
"Do you have a death wish?!" He moved toward me. I pressed back against my chair. "Is that what this is? You want out of this marriage so badly you'd rather die?"
"No! I didn't know about the cinnamon! The maid—"
"I don't want to hear it." He leaned down, hands braced on the armrests of my chair, caging me in. "One more stunt. One more game. And I will make you regret ever waking up in that hospital. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I whispered.
He looked at em from head to toe like i was gum underneath his shoe.
He straightened, adjusted his tie. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and more controlled.
"Stay away from me today. I can't look at you right now without wanting to—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Just stay away."
Then he turned and left, the door slammed behind him.
I sat there, shaking, the smell of cinnamon thick in my hair, broken china scattered across marble floors.
Elena. She'd done it on purpose and sabotaged me.
I had gotten my first enemy in this new life, and I'd only been here two days. Suddenly there was a knock at the door made me jump.
Another older looking maid walked in. "Mrs. De Luca? Your personal belongings arrived from storage. Should I have them brought to your room?"
Seraphina's belongings.
Jackpot!
I stood, legs unsteady. "Yes. Please."
If I was going to survive this, I needed to know who Seraphina Moretti really was.
***
Three hours later, I sat surrounded by boxes in my room.
Clothes, jewelry, books, old phones and tablets, laptops wrapped in bubble wrap as well as photographs in frames and envelopes.
I started with the journals.
I opened it and froze at what I saw.