The Moretti villa was a maze of silent halls, sharp corners, and whispered secrets. Every time Sofia thought she had memorized a part of it, she turned a corner and discovered something new—a portrait with watchful eyes, a door that wouldn't open, a hallway that seemed to stretch forever.
Francesca led her through one such hallway now, her heels clicking crisply on the polished floor.
"Stand up straight," she said without looking back. "She notices posture."
Sofia adjusted her spine. "What else?"
"Don't interrupt her. Don't fidget. And for the love of God, don't mention you studied literature."
Sofia blinked. "Why not?"
"She thinks books make women soft. Romantic. Stupid."
"Oh."
Francesca stopped in front of a set of double doors. "She's old. She's proud. She helped raise Alessandro after his parents died. That means she's powerful. In some ways, even more than he is."
Sofia's heart thundered.
"Ready?" Francesca asked.
No. "Yes."
The doors swung open.
The room was drenched in sunlight, spilling across antique furniture, gilded mirrors, and fresh-cut roses in glass vases. A woman sat in the center of it all, regal and composed, wearing a dark green dress that looked like it belonged in a museum. Her hair was white and coiled in a bun, her earrings diamonds the size of grapes.
She looked up slowly.
"So," she said, her voice sharp and clean, "this is the girl?"
Sofia swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
"Come closer."
Sofia did.
The woman studied her like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem.
"You're thin."
"I—uh—yes."
"Too quiet."
"…Sorry."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Do not apologize. If you're going to be Alessandro's fiancée, you'll need a spine. Do you have one?"
Sofia hesitated. "I think so."
"Hmph. We'll see."
She gestured for Sofia to sit across from her. Sofia obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.
"What's your name again?"
"Sofia Bellini."
"Bellini…" The woman clicked her tongue. "Your father is the senator, yes? Lorenzo Bellini?"
Sofia's stomach tightened. "Yes."
"I never liked him."
Sofia didn't know what to say.
"Spineless man. Obsessed with power. Treated women like currency." She looked at Sofia sharply. "Did he treat you like currency too?"
Sofia met her gaze. "He traded me to your nephew. You tell me."
The woman blinked. Then laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh that filled the room and startled even Francesca.
"Well," she said, sitting back with something that looked dangerously like amusement. "At least you have wit. That's something."
Francesca's eyes darted to Sofia, almost impressed.
"I'm Zia Lucrezia," the woman said. "You may call me Aunt, if this engagement holds."
Sofia nodded. "Thank you."
Zia Lucrezia's gaze turned calculating. "Why did you agree to this match?"
Sofia bit her lip. "Because I didn't have a choice."
"That's honest." A beat passed. "And now that you're here?"
"I'm trying to understand my place."
Zia Lucrezia gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "And do you think you're strong enough to stand next to someone like Alessandro?"
"I don't know yet," Sofia said truthfully. "But I'd like to be."
That earned a pause. Then a single approving nod.
"Well then. Perhaps this won't be a complete disaster."
---
Later, back in her room, Sofia sat by the window, staring at the gardens below. The visit with Zia Lucrezia had rattled her, but in a strange way, it had also steadied her.
It was the first time someone in Alessandro's world had looked at her and spoken to her—not about her, or at her.
There was something terrifying about the way power lived in these people. But there was something honest in it too. You knew where you stood. With her father, things were always quieter. Crueler.
A knock came at her door.
She turned, surprised to find Alessandro standing there.
Not Francesca.
Not a guard.
Him.
He leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, tie missing, hair slightly tousled like he'd just come back from a meeting or a storm. His eyes swept the room, then landed on her.
"You survived," he said.
"Barely."
"She didn't throw a crystal vase. That's a win."
Sofia laughed before she could help herself.
He tilted his head slightly at the sound—like it was unexpected. Like he hadn't been sure she could laugh at all.
"You're not what I expected," she said before she could stop herself.
He raised a brow. "Again?"
"You're not just cruel. You're funny. A little."
He smirked. "Don't spread that rumor. It'll ruin me."
Sofia stood. "Did you want something?"
"There's a dinner tonight. Political. Boring. But you'll need to be there."
Her stomach dropped. "What kind of dinner?"
"A fundraiser. Clean faces, dirty money. Smile, wear something red, stay close to me."
"Why red?"
"Because people will be looking," he said simply. "They always are."
---
That night, Sofia stood in front of the mirror in a crimson silk dress she never would've chosen on her own. It hugged her waist, fell softly to the floor, and left her shoulders bare. Francesca had insisted on red lipstick and lined eyes. Her hair was swept up.
She looked… different.
Not like herself.
Not the shy girl who hid behind books and silence.
She looked like someone who belonged on his arm.
When Alessandro entered the room to escort her, he paused. Actually paused.
His gaze swept over her once—slow, unreadable—and something flickered in his eyes. Not warmth. But recognition.
"You'll do," he said.
Sofia didn't answer.
But her heart stuttered anyway.
---
The fundraiser was held in Palermo at a historic hotel with marble staircases and a glass ceiling. People in tuxedos and gowns floated around with champagne flutes and hidden agendas.
Sofia stayed close to Alessandro, doing exactly as she was told—smiling, nodding, pretending she belonged.
He introduced her without emotion: "My fiancée, Sofia Bellini."
She didn't miss the way people's eyes widened. Or how quickly they masked their surprise.
One woman even leaned in with a snake-like smile. "She's so young, Alessandro. So… fresh."
Sofia held her tongue.
Alessandro's hand tightened briefly on her back. "Exactly."
The woman blinked.
And moved on.
They drifted from conversation to conversation. Sofia tried to keep track of names, but it was impossible. Everyone spoke in half-truths and veiled compliments. The air was heavy with old money and cold ambition.
At one point, Alessandro leaned down and murmured, "You're doing fine."
She looked up. "I feel like I'm drowning."
He smirked. "You're floating just enough to fool them."
---
Later, when the guests moved toward the dance floor, Alessandro offered his hand.
Sofia hesitated. "I don't know how."
"Just follow."
He pulled her into his arms. He was warm and steady. She moved awkwardly at first, but his hand at her waist was firm, guiding her gently into rhythm.
"You're not bad," he said quietly.
"You're surprised?"
"Constantly."
Their eyes met. Something in his gaze had softened—just slightly. A crack in the mask.
"I never asked," she whispered. "What do you want out of this?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
"I want the freedom to choose my own end."
A chill ran down her spine.
But she understood.
Because for the first time..... she wanted to choose hers too.