The morning sun filtered weakly through the sheer curtains, brushing the white bedding with a golden hue. Sofia lay still beneath the sheets, eyes open, her body heavy with the weight of everything she hadn't said the night before.
Viola's words echoed through her mind like poison dripping in slow intervals:
A doll on a shelf.
He'll get bored.
You won't last.
She didn't cry. Not because she didn't want to—but because she felt too numb to.
There was a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," she said hoarsely.
A maid entered, delicate and professional. "Mr. Moretti asked that you join him for breakfast on the veranda."
Sofia blinked. "He did?"
"Yes, signorina."
She dressed quickly, choosing a soft blue blouse and white skirt. She brushed her hair, applied a light gloss to her lips, and checked herself in the mirror. Not for beauty—just for the illusion of control.
The veranda was shaded, draped in ivy and sunlight. A long glass table sat in the center, already set with fruit, pastries, coffee, and a few newspapers.
Alessandro sat at the head, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
"Good morning," she offered as she approached.
He didn't look up. "Sit."
She obeyed, settling quietly into the chair across from him.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the rustling of newspaper pages and the distant hum of cicadas. He finally glanced at her, as if remembering she existed.
"You'll come with me this afternoon. I have a meeting."
"What kind of meeting?"
"Boring. Wear something neutral." He paused. "You'll be there for appearances only."
"Of course." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
He studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're pale."
"I didn't sleep well."
He said nothing, but she felt his gaze linger longer than usual.
After breakfast, he left without another word.
---
The estate was a maze of grand halls and shadowed corners. Sofia wandered through the west wing, where sunlight danced on old tapestries. She stumbled upon the library, then a rose garden, then a glass-walled conservatory no one seemed to use anymore.
It was beautiful. Cold. Silent.
Just like the rest of her life.
She sat on a bench beside a rose bush, letting her fingers trail over a pale bloom. Her phone buzzed.
Daisy 🌼
Still alive? Or did the marble floors swallow you whole?
Sofia smiled faintly but didn't reply. She stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen again.
---
That afternoon, a black car awaited them. Alessandro didn't speak as she slid into the seat beside him. He wore a gray suit, dark tie, sunglasses. He looked like someone untouchable.
She sat quietly, trying not to shrink into herself.
The meeting turned out to be a visit to a boutique hotel his family was acquiring. Sofia followed him through the lobby, into elevators, meeting polished strangers who bowed and smiled.
"Mr. Moretti, pleasure."
"This is my fiancée, Sofia."
Every time he said the word, it felt like he was playing a part in a play he hated.
She gave polite smiles, nodded when needed, tried not to fidget.
At one point, a tall blonde in stilettos swept over to them.
"Alessandro," she purred, placing a hand on his arm. "It's been forever. I didn't know you were back in Sicily."
He removed her hand with calm precision. "I'm here for business."
"Oh, I see. And this must be…" Her eyes flicked to Sofia. "The fiancée. Right."
Sofia forced a smile. "Yes."
The woman gave her a once-over, like she was assessing a knock-off bag. "Well. She's… sweet."
Alessandro said nothing.
The woman winked at him and sauntered away, hips swaying.
Sofia stared straight ahead, her heart hammering in her chest.
"I'm used to women throwing themselves at you," she said quietly once they were alone. "But do they have to do it in front of me?"
He looked at her, brows lifting in faint amusement. "You're not used to anything yet."
Her mouth opened slightly. "I didn't mean—"
"I don't owe you explanations, Sofia. This isn't a love story."
Her stomach twisted. She said nothing more.
---
That night, dinner was a quiet affair in one of the estate's smaller salons. Alessandro scrolled through his phone while Sofia pushed pasta around her plate.
When the silence grew unbearable, she asked softly, "Why did you agree to this engagement?"
He didn't look up. "It was convenient."
Her throat tightened. "Convenient."
"For both of us," he added. "You get safety, stability. My family gets what they want. I don't have to waste time pretending."
"Right," she said, barely managing to keep her voice steady. "No pretending."
But wasn't that all they were doing?
---
Later, in her room, Sofia curled up on the window seat, phone in her lap. The moon cast silver light across the tiles, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
Her thumb hovered over Daisy's name.
She tapped out a message:
Is it normal to feel like you're drowning even when nothing is happening?
She stared at it.
Then deleted it.
Instead, she typed:
How was your day?
The reply came instantly:
Long. Better now. Want to talk?
Sofia hesitated, then typed:
Not yet. Just… thanks for checking in.
She didn't know how to say the truth: that the walls were closing in slowly. That she felt like a porcelain figurine—on display, unbreakable on the outside, cracking on the inside.
She just wanted someone to see her.
But for now, she pressed her head against the glass and closed her eyes, pretending for a moment that someone did.