“It’s not fine.” Giovanni’s voice cuts sharper now, the calm edge stripped away. “She speaks to you like this, and you do nothing.”
My gaze dips, a small retreat I can’t hide, but he doesn’t ease. His voice stays steady, unrelenting.
“Defend yourself, Liliana.”
The words aren’t a request. They’re a command.
“Giovanni…” Alba begins quietly, her tone low, a warning buried in her voice.
“No, Mamma.” His reply is cold, controlled. “Stay out of this.”
I lift my hands, signing that it isn’t worth it. That silence costs me nothing. I try to keep it calm, even, but his eyes only harden. His jaw tightens, the line of his shoulders sharpening as he steps closer.
“You will defend yourself,” he says, voice low but carrying weight. “I will not always be here to do it for you.”
The words land heavier than I expect, cutting deeper than I want to admit. My fingers move before I think, sharper than I intend. I don’t need to fight every time someone speaks.
His gaze doesn’t shift. He stands rooted, unyielding, his silence heavier than any raised voice. The air between us pulls tighter, as though the room itself is holding its breath.
And then, suddenly, I feel it.
The roll of nausea, sharp and twisting, cuts through everything else. My chest tightens, my stomach churning with an urgency that makes the rest of the moment scatter.
I take a step back, my hand pressing against my abdomen. Giovanni’s voice comes again, lower now, almost questioning,but I shake my head once, already turning away before he can follow.
The garden path feels too long. The air feels too warm. I reach the nearest side entrance of the house, keeping my pace steady until I am inside. I don’t make it far before I find the closest washroom.
I grip the edge of the basin, the porcelain cool beneath my palms. The nausea strikes hard, sharp, and sudden, forcing my breath to hitch. My stomach twists, my throat burns, and I bend over until it passes, leaving me weak, my pulse loud in my ears.
I keep my eyes closed, breathing slowly, the faint hum of the estate beyond the door a distant thing. When I finally straighten, I rinse my mouth, the taste acrid, unwelcome. My hands shake faintly as I splash cold water over my face. The shock of it doesn’t help the tightness in my chest.
In the mirror, my reflection is pale. My lips are pressed thin, my eyes wide, as if the fear threading through my veins is written plainly there.
I draw one breath, then another, willing my body to still.
When I open the door, I expect the hallway to be empty. It isn’t.
Alba stands a few paces away, her posture as composed as ever, her gaze fixed on me in a way that feels precise. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The weight of her attention says more than any words could.
And she isn’t alone. Giovanni is beside her. His eyes lock on me the moment the door opens. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly, the cool calculation I’ve come to recognize giving way to something sharper. He steps forward without hesitation.
His hand comes up, cupping my face, his palm warm against my cheek. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite name, but it settles into me like heat all the same.
The fear in my chest is a thread pulled too tight. I know it must show, so I move quickly, my hands lifting before he can press further. I’m fine. Just dizzy.
His eyes search mine as though he doesn’t quite believe me. The pause stretches. Then he leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to my forehead. The gesture is brief, grounding, but it makes my breath catch.
Before he can say anything else, before the weight of his attention can press further, I step back. My hands lower to my sides, my head bowing faintly, and then I move past them both.
Neither of them stops me.
The walk back to my room feels longer than it should. The garden’s air still clings faintly to my skin, the scent of greenery and sunlight carried with me even here.
The rest of the day folds in on itself. I stay in my room. Giovanni doesn’t return to me right away, and I don’t seek him out. Theearlier tension hangs like a quiet echo, his voice, Alba’s silence, Camilla’s words, all of it circling the edges of my mind.
By evening, the light has shifted. The sun is low, the pale warmth in my room fading into softer gold. The air feels still, heavier than it should.
A soft knock sounds against my door before it opens just enough to let Maria step inside. She moves with her usual quiet efficiency, a tray balanced neatly in her hands. The faint scent of warm bread and coffee drifts into the room as she sets it down on the table near the window. Her movements are smooth, unobtrusive, as though she intends to be gone before I can speak.
