Maria’s brows draw together. “Would you like me to bring something to you?”
I shake my head. She hesitates. I wish I could yell at her to leave. But she's not in any way responsible for how I feel, so I turn my head. That exact moment, she curtsies, then leaves quietly.
I lie back down, staring at the ceiling. Telling Maria to tell him I have a headache was a mistake. Now, he'll think I'm unwell, and he might come to tend to me. I imagine him thinking, poor little puppy.
Against my better judgment, I find myself staring at the door, tensed, half hoping he’ll come check on me. And in spite of myself, my pulse quickens.
But he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? He has important things to tend to. I'm not on his list of priorities, despite what he'd like me to believe.
I burrow deeper into the blankets, biting back the sudden sting behind my eyes. I hate that I’d hoped. That some part of me wants to believe I matter to him. I hate how weak it makes me feel.
At some point, exhaustion wins, and my thoughts drift into the murk of sleep.
When I wake, the light has changed. Sunlight filters through the heavy drapes in slanted golden stripes. The air is still and quiet. I blink against the light, momentarily disoriented.
I realize it’s well past noon. I slept longer than I meant to.
Outside, the sky is a soft, pale blue. A breeze stirs the edge of the curtain. I rise slowly, stretching, and the ache in my body has lessened to a dullness, not the biting reminder it was.
I go about getting ready for the day. First on my list is to take a long shower. The water is hot and cleansing. I scrub every inch of my skin, trying to rinse away the guilt and confusion still clinging to me. I refuse to ponder on what has happened.
I feel clean when I'm done, but I know it's fickle.
I towel off and go about getting dressed. I pick a midi green cotton dress that buttons down the front. It's modest but flattering, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. I have a thing for dresses that are perfectly fitted at the waist.
I debate brushing my hair back or packing it up in a ponytail. An image of Giovanni burying his hands in my air filters into my thoughts, momentarily distracting me, and I mentally shake my head.
No.
I decide on leaving it down, brushing it back while still damp. I slip on a pair of black leather sandals, easy to traipse the estate with.
I proceed out of the room, and I cautiously descend the stairs, hoping he’s gone, praying I won’t have to see him yet. Lord knows I can't face him yet. The portraits of the Renzetti ancestors glare down at me as I pass through the hallway that connects to the dining room, and I wonder if they see through me and wonder at how foolish I am.
When I reach the dining area, relief washes over me. He’s not here. Only a server stands near the door, and she greets me with a polite nod before motioning to the table already set.
Lunch is a light affair—pasta al pomodoro, fresh mozzarella, thin slices of prosciutto, and a crisp fennel salad drizzled with lemon and olive oil. There’s chilled sparkling water, too, served with a slice of blood orange.
I eat slowly. Each bite is a reminder of just how exceptional Giovanni’s staff are. Their attention to detail borders on reverence. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the way the tomatoesburst with sweetness on my tongue. It’s easy, in this moment, to forget everything. Easy to pretend I’m someone else.
When I finish, I thank the servers, and afterwards, I leave the dining room. Not leave, really—flee, because I still can't face Giovanni yet.
I make my way toward the gardens. I remember them vaguely from the day I arrived, but I didn’t take them in properly then.
The path opens into a manicured sprawl of hedges and flowerbeds. Vines curl around trellises. There are roses, of course. Every Italian estate seems to favor them. But there are others, too. Wild geraniums, soft lavender, tall stalks of bellflower. Bees hum somewhere behind me. The smell of citrus lingers in the air.
It’s quieter here than in my father’s gardens. Less staged. Less trimmed within an inch of its life. This one breathes, but it doesn't feel lived in.
Perhaps, I can make it home.
I’m just beginning to appreciate the symmetry of the arrangement when Tomasso appears from around the corner. He’s dressed in a dark polo and slacks, casual for him.
“Signora,” he greets with a smile. “Out enjoying the sun?”
I nod politely. Then sign. It’s a lovely day.
His eyes flick to my hands and back to my face. He signs back. It is. You look... rested.
I smile faintly. He’s kind. He makes me feel less insignificant.
