"Drink it," he said.
I stared at the glass of bitter black coffee on the nightstand, my hands trembling beneath the velvet sheets.
"I didn't sleep last night," I murmured. "My chest…"
"Not my problem."
Alessandro stood by the door, fully dressed, jacket draped over one shoulder, cufflinks glinting as he adjusted them. He hadn't looked at me once since walking in.
Not once.
He didn't ask how I was feeling after the fever.
Didn't ask why I was coughing blood into the sink the night before.
Didn't ask why there were pills in the drawer, prescriptions dated months before we ever met.
"You're quiet again," he said flatly.
"I'm trying not to offend you by existing."
"Smart."
He turned, finally meeting my eyes, and for a moment…just a breath…his stare lingered.
"You remember last night?" he asked.
I nodded. "I remember."
His jaw clenched. "Good. Then you'll remember not to mistake it for anything but a lapse in judgment."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
A pause.
"You're learning," he said, coldly.
"No," I whispered. "I'm observing."
He blinked, but didn't reply.
And then he left.
By noon, I was summoned.
Claudia Moretti sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table like a queen on a throne, flanked by two women who oozed money and poison. One was Giulia. The other, someone new. Blonde, silent, eyes like glass.
"Anastasia," Claudia said with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "You look pale. Are you eating?"
"Enough," I said, seating myself.
Giulia smirked. "She doesn't eat. Makes it easier to pretend she's delicate."
"I don't have to pretend," I replied.
She stilled.
Claudia's laugh broke the tension like cracking ice. "Oh, I like her today."
The other woman finally spoke. "You're Russian, yes? But not born into the Vetrova bloodline?"
"No," I said.
"Adopted," Giulia answered for me, smiling. "Charity case turned consolation prize."
"Giulia," Claudia warned.
"No," I said calmly. "She's right. I was a charity case. The difference is..some people never grow out of needing to be saved."
Giulia's smile faltered.
Claudia poured herself a glass of wine, swirling it thoughtfully. "Have you adjusted to your husband's…temperament?"
"I don't need to adjust," I said. "I'm not here to please him."
All three women went quiet.
Claudia watched me for a long beat.
Then she smiled again…this time, it reached her eyes.
"I'm starting to think Alessandro underestimated you."
"Everyone does."
I found Alessandro in his study that evening, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, hair disheveled from the stress of surgery. He didn't hear me enter.
"I need the car," I said.
He didn't look up. "No."
"I have an appointment."
"Not my concern."
"I'm your wife."
"Only on paper."
"Then burn the paper."
That made him look at me.
His eyes were tired. Dark.
"You're not ready for this world, Anastasia," he said.
"Then why did you drag me into it?"
"Because my mother demanded it."
"And you always obey mommy?"
A flash of anger.
He stood. "You want freedom?"
"Yes."
He stalked forward, stopping inches from me. "Then earn it."
"How?"
He leaned in, his voice a low snarl. "Be a wife. Be silent. Look pretty. Lie still when I want you. And maybe..maybe…I'll let you walk away without a war."
I didn't flinch.
"You want war?" I whispered. "You should've married someone weaker."
I walked out.
The ballroom was too gold.
Too loud.
Too fake.
Diamonds glittered under the chandelier like sweat on a liar's neck. Alessandro hadn't come with me. Of course he hadn't. He just sent the driver with a note:
"You want freedom? Start dancing with the wolves."
– A.
So I dressed in silver. Thin straps, slit up to my thigh, and red lips sharp enough to cut. I came alone, and I entered without fear.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder.
Let them feel uncomfortable that the girl they all mocked was still standing.
"Anastasia."
I turned.
Leon Hartmann stood there in a midnight-black tux, blond hair a little messy, tie slightly crooked, and those ocean-blue eyes soft the way no man had ever looked at me in this city.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said.
"I had to make an appearance."
He tilted his head. "You mean he made you."
"He made me visible," I replied. "Not present."
Leon's smile faded. "He's not here, is he?"
"No."
"And you're still wearing his name?"
"For now."
We danced.
His hand on my back wasn't possessive.
It was supportive.
He didn't touch me like a man staking a claim.
He held me like a man holding a fallen leaf…soft, careful, expecting it to crumble.
Halfway through the second dance, I felt the burn at the back of my neck.
I knew the weight of that stare.
Alessandro.
He stood at the edge of the room, shirt open at the collar, jaw locked, drink untouched.
His eyes were black holes…devouring the sight of me in another man's arms.
He watched every movement.
Every turn.
Every smile I gave Leon.
I looked over Leon's shoulder directly into Alessandro's eyes as I leaned in and whispered something…anything…into Leon's ear.
Alessandro turned away.
But not before I saw it.
The flare.
The crack.
The beginnings of obsession.
He didn't speak in the car.
Didn't speak when we walked into the villa.
Didn't speak when I turned toward my bedroom.
But when my hand touched the doorknob, his voice cut the air.
"Did you fuck him?"
I turned slowly.
"You really think I'd give myself to someone just to piss you off?"
"I think you'd do whatever it takes to pretend you have power."
"Pretend?" I laughed. "I already do. I live here. I walk free. And you…"
I stepped toward him, chest rising.
"...are starting to crack."
He didn't deny it.
Just moved so suddenly, so fast, I didn't have time to brace myself before my back hit the wall, his hand slamming beside my face.
"I could ruin you," he hissed.
"You already did."
Our faces were too close. I smelled cologne and fury.
"I should throw you out," he said.
"Then why haven't you?"
Silence.
He grabbed my wrist, dragged me toward the stairs.
"You're not sleeping in that room anymore."
I fought him. "Let go of me."
"No."
He opened his door and shoved me in.
I stumbled across the room.
"You're staying here now," he said.
"Why? To make it easier to hurt me?"
"No." His voice was low. Raw. "To stop someone else from touching what's mine."
He slept on the couch that night.
I didn't sleep at all.
Every second, I could feel the weight of his body just feet away.
Every breath he took made my lungs itch.
And sometime around 3 a.m., I heard it.
Him.
Whispering my name in his sleep.
Like it was both a plea and a curse.
The next morning, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
I sat at the dining table like a stranger in my own skin, dressed in silk, my hands folded perfectly on the linen napkin, my head pounding from lack of sleep. The maids came and went like ghosts, not meeting my eyes.
Alessandro walked in thirty minutes late.
He didn't say good morning.
Didn't acknowledge me.
He sat at the head of the table and opened the morning news like I didn't exist.
I reached for the tea.
"Use the other cup," he said flatly, not looking up.
I paused. "Why?"
"That one's mine."
"It's just porcelain."
"It's mine," he said again.
I slowly set it down.
"Do I need to remind you what this marriage is?" he added.
"No," I whispered.
"Then act accordingly."
I swallowed every word I wanted to say. Every scream in my throat. Every retort that told him I was more than a paper bride.
I wasn't here for love.
But I didn't come here to be erased.
He stood.
"I'm leaving for Milan. I'll be gone two days."
"Should I call the press?" I asked bitterly.
He turned his head, slowly. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Try to pretend this is a game you can win."
I smiled.
"It's not a game, Alessandro. It's a war."
Later that afternoon, I overheard the staff talking.
"She's so pale."
"She barely eats."
"I heard she faints sometimes."
"Madame Moretti said the girl was sick."
"She won't last."
I turned the corner quietly and passed them with my head high.
Let them talk.
Let them watch.
Let them pray for my collapse.
Because I wouldn't fall.
Not yet.
Not until I made him kneel first.