Weight one: father dead.
Weight two: Dante untouchable.
Weight three: Alessandro chose silence.
Weight four: I’m pregnant.
Weight five: twins.
Weight six: he doesn’t know.
Weight seven: he might already know.
I pause there. The idea has been following me all day, quiet-footed and persistent, like a shadow that refuses to detach. What if he knows? I replay the morning. The guards. Teresa. The dining room.
Nothing obvious. But obvious isn’t his style. Alessandro doesn’t react where you can see it. He adjusts. Quietly. Deliberately. Irrevocably.
If he knew, would anything look different? Or would it look exactly the same until it wasn’t?
I exhale slowly. I don’t like variables I can’t observe. I like them even less when they live inside my own body.
“That’s new,” I tell the garden. “Even my womb may be under surveillance.”
The rosemary doesn’t respond. Wise.
A breeze moves through the cypress trees, soft but cold, shifting the leaves just enough to sound like movement that isn’t there. I listen. Not because I think I’m alone. Because I know I’m not. There’s always someone within range. Always someone watching, even if they pretend not to.
Especially then.
I stand because sitting still has become dangerous. Stillness invites thought. Thought invites the crack. Movement is safer. The path curves through the garden in deliberate lines, all geometry and obedience. Nothing grows here without permission. Even the wildness has been edited into respectability.
Very Vitale.
I walk slowly because presentation matters. Especially when one is falling apart in installments. The gravel shifts beneath my shoes, not loud enough to draw attention. Not soft enough to disappear entirely.
Balanced. Everything here is balanced. The greenhouse sits at the far end of the garden, dark and glassy. Its windows reflect more than they reveal, a structure designed to hold fragile things under the illusion of open air.
Also very Vitale.
I can see my reflection in the panes as I pass. Pale face. Dark coat. Hair pinned badly now because I removed three pins earlier without noticing.
I look almost like myself. Almost. That’s becoming a problem. A big secret should change your reflection. There should be some visible evidence. A warning label. A structural notice.Caution: future under renovation.
Instead, I still look like Evie Brennan. Daughter. Guest. Threat.
Mistress?
No.
I stop walking.
No. Absolutely not. That word belongs to other women in other stories. Women placed carefully in rooms by men who call it arrangement and expect gratitude for the silk sheets. Women who learn the shape of their boundaries and decorate them.
I’m not that. I’m not his mistress. I’m not his bride. I’m not his anything.
Except…
The thought slides low and sharp, precise enough to land before I can block it.
