I nod.
He crosses the space between us and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Good.”
The rest of the day moves slowly. I spend some time in the garden, tucked beneath the arch of an olive tree with a book in my lap. The guards drift past now and then, never too close. The sun filters through the leaves. I try not to think too hard.
By late afternoon, I return inside. The air is quieter now, the light falling softer through the windows. I’m on my way back from the garden, ready to settle down for a while, maybe find something to read. But as I turn into the hallway leading toward the southern wing, I slow.
Camilla.
She’s halfway down the corridor, arms full, trying to balance a wide glass vase and a thick roll of fabric that keeps slipping from her elbow. She doesn’t see me. Her heel catches on the rug. The vase shifts, unsteady.
Something in me stills. I don’t trust her.
My feet nearly stop, a deep reflex urging me to step back and avoid the interaction entirely. I’ve learned too well how her words can be used as weapons. A small part of me wonders if this is some new trick, a set-up waiting to snap shut around me.
But when the vase tips, instinct overrides hesitation. I step in and catch it before it crashes. The glass is cool against my hands. I feel its weight steady.
She startles. Her eyes snap up to mine, wide and unguarded. For a second, she forgets her mask.
“Thanks,” she says, breathless.
I nod. Nothing more. I reach for the fabric next, lifting it off her arm. Her fingers tense like she might protest, but she doesn’t. She lets me take it.
Together, we walk the remaining steps to a sitting room just off the hall. She places the vase on the table, careful now, both hands lingering on it longer than necessary. I lay the fabric down, smoothing it across the polished wood, before retrieving my hands. I don’t look at her.
The silence stretches between us, but I don’t sign. Not yet.
I stay still, my hands resting in my lap, eyes trained on the roll of fabric I’ve just smoothed across the table. My breath is even, but inside, I feel the thrum of something I can’t quite name. She’s never spoken like this before. Never stood in front of me without some sharp edge glinting beneath the surface.
Then, she says something I don't quite catch until she repeats it. “I was horrible to you.”
It's unexpected, and it totally caught me off guard. I don’t move. I don’t flinch. But there’s something in the way my spine stays taut, the way my fingers curl just slightly against my thigh.
The memories come back sharp. Her words, her stares, her constant reminders that I didn’t belong here. That I was nothing but a blemish in a world she thought was hers alone.
I keep my face calm. I’ve had enough practice hiding what’s under the surface. But I hear it.
I hear the crack in her voice when she says, “I was angry. Entitled. Jealous.”
The honesty in it feels raw. I keep my gaze on the fabric. I don’t help her out of the discomfort.
“I was,” she says again. “From the moment you arrived. I judged you. I dismissed you. I made it hard for you to breathe in this house, and I knew it.
I look up at her. Not away. At her. She doesn’t falter.
“I was angry, yes. But also jealous. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. You just... appeared. And I couldn’t stand how easily he let you in. How different he was around you.”
Her lips press together. “I told myself I was protecting something. Giovanni, this house, his reputation. But I wasn’t. I was protecting my pride. I see that now. Because I had thought he would finally choose me.”
She admits what I already knew, but never thought I’d hear out loud. That she made me her enemy before I’d even had thechance to find my footing. That she aimed for soft places. That she pressed on wounds with a smile on her face.
And now she’s looking at me, her eyes steady, as if she wants to hand it over like a confession, laid bare in the quiet.
“I’m sorry, Liliana.”
The words fall into the air between us, and they land hard.
My throat tightens, not from pain, but from the pressure of everything that wants to surface. The hurt I’ve carried. The shame. The way I used to shrink when I saw her coming. The nights I wondered if Giovanni would see me the way she did—as small, as dispensable.
