Camilla’s smile holds, but it tightens, the edge visible now. “I was only speaking to her,” she says, smooth as before, though there’s a faint strain at the edges of her voice.
“You’ve spoken enough,” Alba replies, her words even but unyielding. Her eyes remain fixed on Camilla, a silent line drawn in the space between them.
Camilla holds her gaze for a beat, then takes a small, measured step back. The movement is graceful, controlled, but her parting look at me is not. It lingers just long enough to promise this is not finished before she turns, her heels clicking in steady rhythm as she walks away.
The tension in my chest shifts, loosening but not vanishing.
Alba’s attention moves to me. Her expression is unreadable, her posture straight, her gaze assessing with a weight that feels both calculating and unreadable.
Before either of us speak, the air changes. Another presence fills the hall.
Giovanni.
He comes from the far end, his steps measured, his gaze moving over both of us before settling on me. His eyes search my face, then flick toward the direction Camilla is walking.
“Camilla.”
It’s not loud, but it doesn’t have to be. The weight in it stops her mid-step.
Her spine stiffens before she turns, slow and composed, her face a mask of control. But her shoulders betray her, the faintest tightening that anyone who knows her would see.
Giovanni steps forward, unhurried, but the shift in the air is immediate. His presence presses into the space, not sharp but immovable, the way a storm builds before it breaks. His eyes settle on her, cold and unblinking.
“I didn’t think you’d bother with something so far beneath you,” he says, his tone smooth, almost polite. Then, after a pause, “I was wrong.”
The words are quiet, but the cut is sharp enough to draw blood.
Camilla’s expression doesn’t crack, but her jaw tightens just slightly. “I was—”
“If I see so much as a whiff of you near my wife again,” Giovanni says, each word measured, “or hear that you’ve approached herto speak another demeaning word, I will not be responsible for what happens next.”
He lets the silence hang, unbroken, before adding, “Now apologize to my wife.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp, searching. I lift my hand automatically, my fingers moving to sign that it isn’t necessary, that I don’t need this. But Giovanni ignores me completely, his gaze never leaving her.
Camilla’s smile is still there, but it’s thin now, more a mask than before. “Giovanni…” she says, his name carrying a note of incredulity, as though she expects him to soften.
He doesn’t. “I won’t repeat myself.”
The silence stretches, taut as wire. Her chin lifts a fraction, but she knows she’s lost. Slowly, she turns her gaze back to me.
“My apologies, Liliana.” The words are smooth, practiced, but her eyes are still cold, still measuring.
I start to lift my hand again, to sign that it’s fine, but Giovanni’s hand closes gently but firmly over mine.
“That’s enough,” he says, his tone so cold it chills the air. His eyes flick back to Camilla. “Get the hell out, and never return.”
Her mouth parts, like she might protest, but she reads the set of his expression and thinks better of it. Without another word, she turns and walks out, the sound swallowed by the soil.
Giovanni’s gaze lingers after her for a moment. Is he already regretting telling her off on my behalf?
Before I can dwell on that thought, his gaze shifts back to me. There’s something sharper in his eyes now, the control still there but threaded with something else.
“That should not have been necessary,” he says, his voice low, measured. “You should have said something yourself.”
The air tightens between us. I feel the words building like the edge of a storm.
I hesitate. My hands move slowly. It’s fine. She is not the first person to insult or demean me.
