Emilia's bare feet touched the marble landing, the ivory dress settled around her thighs like a second skin—heavier than anything she owned, the high neck grazing her throat exactly where both men had touched her last night. She'd found it folded on the vanity when she woke, a single piece of paper beneath it with no words, just his signature, crisp and black. The morning sun cut through the tall windows, warming the floor beneath her, and she saw him before he saw her—Luca at the head of the long table, coffee cup halfway to his lips, the steam curling around his jaw like smoke around stone.
She waited for him to look up. He didn't. The servants moved along the far wall, silent as shadows, filling silver dishes with food she couldn't smell. She took a step forward. Then another. Her heels clicked once on the marble and his head lifted, slow, deliberate, his gray eyes finding her from across the room.
His gaze traveled. From her throat—where the high collar pressed white against her skin—to her waist, where the fabric cinched tight, to her hands, clenched at her sides. She felt inspected. Cataloged. His eyes lingered on her fingers, on the way she was twisting them, and something flickered in his face—not approval, not displeasure, but recognition. He set down his coffee.
"Come here." Not a command. An invitation that wasn't one.
She crossed the room, the dress rustling with each step, and stopped beside the chair across from him—the one that faced the windows, the one she'd assumed was hers. He shook his head once, a small movement, and gestured to the chair on his right. The one beside him, close enough that her arm brushed the edge of his sleeve when she sat down. A servant stepped forward and pulled it out for her, and Emilia lowered herself into it, the leather cool against her thighs through the thin fabric.
Luca's hand found her knee under the table. Heavy, warm, his palm flat against the ivory silk, his fingers curling just slightly around the inside of her thigh. She went still, her breath catching in her throat, but he didn't look at her. He picked up his coffee with his other hand and took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on something beyond the window.
"Eat."
She looked down at the plate the servant had placed in front of her—fresh fruit, a pastry still warm, a small dish of honey. Her stomach was a knot of wires, but she reached for the pastry anyway, her fingers trembling as she broke off a piece. His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her knee, a lazy gesture, unhurried. Like he had all day. Like she was already his and the ritual was just formality.
The servants moved around them, refilling coffee, adjusting the silver, and she realized none of them looked at her. Their eyes stayed down, fixed on their tasks, as if trained not to see the don's wife in a dress that was not hers, sitting where a stranger should not sit. The pastry crumbled between her fingers. She set it down.
"You chose this room." His voice was flat, conversational. "The guest wing. First door on the left."
She nodded, then remembered he was watching the window. "Yes."
"Good judgment." His thumb pressed once, firm, then released. "You'll take breakfast here from now on. Beside me."
The hand on her knee didn't move. The servants kept their eyes down. Emilia stared at the honey pooling on her plate and felt the weight of his palm like a brand—not a question, not a request, but a claim being made in daylight, in front of everyone who mattered in this house. She was not a guest. She was not a prisoner. She was something Luca was choosing to show the world, and the fear in her chest was threaded with something else—something that heated her cheeks and made her thighs press together beneath his hand.
Emilia pressed her thigh into his palm. The movement was small—barely an inch, the barest shift of muscle beneath silk—but deliberate. She felt him feel it, his fingers stilling for half a heartbeat before resuming their slow circuit on her skin, and something in her chest unlocked. Not permission. Something older. Something that had been waiting in her bones since she'd first felt his hand on her collarbone on their wedding night, before he'd pulled away and left her alone.
His thumb dragged higher, just past the hem of her dress, the pad of it pressing against the bare skin of her inner thigh. She didn't look at him. She couldn't. Her eyes stayed fixed on the honey pooling on her plate, on the pastry crumbs scattered across the white porcelain, on anything but the gray eyes she could feel cutting into her from the head of the table. The servants had stopped moving. She couldn't say when—one moment they were shadows, the next they were gone, the room empty of everyone except the two of them and the silence that had settled like dust.
"Look at me."
She did. Slowly, her chin lifting, her throat working as she swallowed, her brown eyes meeting his gray ones across the short distance between them. He was watching her the way he had watched her last night—not with cold assessment, but with something darker, something that made her stomach tighten and her thighs press together against his hand. His thumb pressed once, a question she didn't know how to answer, and then he withdrew his hand entirely, setting it flat on the table beside his coffee cup.
She felt the absence like a wound. Open. Cold. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her, and she had to stop herself from reaching down, from pressing her own palm against the place his had been. She didn't. She kept her hands in her lap, her fingers twisted together, her breath shallow and uneven.
"Finish your breakfast." His voice was flat again, the hunger banked behind the mask. "We have guests coming this afternoon."
She blinked. "Guests?"
"Business associates." He picked up his coffee, took a slow sip, set it down. "You'll join us." Not a question. "Wear the green dress in your closet. The one with the high collar."
Her throat tightened. The collar that would cover the places he'd touched. The places Matteo had touched. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and reached for her fork with trembling fingers. Luca watched her for a long moment, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder where the ivory dress cut clean across her collarbone, and then he stood, the chair sliding back against the marble with a soft scrape.
He didn't say goodbye. He didn't touch her. He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he passed, and she felt the heat of him linger on her skin like a brand she couldn't scrub off. The door clicked shut behind him, and she was alone in the breakfast room, the sun warm on her face, the honey glistening on her plate, the ghost of his thumb still burning on her thigh.
She pressed her own hand there, hard, and held it.
She pressed her own palm against her thigh, hard enough to feel the bone beneath, and held it there until the ghost of his thumb began to fade. The room was silent around her—the servants had not returned, the coffee had gone cold, the honey on her plate had crystallized into amber beads. She sat alone at the long mahogany table, the ivory dress bunched at her hip where his hand had been, and she could still feel the exact pressure of his thumb circling on her bare skin like a brand she hadn't earned.
She stood slowly, her legs unsteady beneath her, and walked to the tall windows. The garden stretched out below—hedges trimmed into geometric shapes, a stone fountain in the center, the water catching the morning light and scattering it across the marble terrace. She pressed her forehead against the glass, the cool surface grounding her, and closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she saw Matteo's dark eyes, his breath warm against her throat, the way he'd whispered her name like a secret he was afraid to keep. And then Luca's thumb, dragging across the same spot, claiming what Matteo had only touched.
She touched her own throat. Felt the pulse beating there, fast and uneven. She remembered the way Luca had pressed his thumb against her collarbone on their wedding night—a single, deliberate touch before he'd pulled away and left her alone in the guest wing. And last night, he'd done it again, tracing the same spot, marking her like a map he was still learning to read. She pressed harder, her nails dimpling the skin, and felt the ache of it settle into her bones.
A sound behind her—soft, deliberate. She turned, her hand dropping from her throat, and found a servant standing at the edge of the breakfast room. A woman in a gray dress, her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mrs. Moretti," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "the green dress has been laid out in your room. Mr. Moretti requested you be ready by three."
Emilia nodded, not trusting her voice. The servant waited a beat, then withdrew, her footsteps silent on the marble. Emilia stood alone in the empty room, the sun warm on her back, the cold glass still imprinting against her forehead. She looked down at her hand, still trembling at her side, and curled it into a fist. The green dress. The high collar. The afternoon guests. She was being dressed like a doll, presented like a possession, and she couldn't tell if the heat rising in her chest was shame or want.
She walked back to the table and picked up her coffee cup. Cold. She set it down again, her fingers lingering on the rim, and thought about the way Luca's hand had felt on her knee—heavy and warm and certain. She had pressed into it. She had wanted more. And he had withdrawn, leaving her aching and exposed, like a lesson she was supposed to learn but couldn't name.
The memory of Matteo's breath on her throat surfaced again, unbidden. The way he'd said her name. The way his hand had hovered an inch from her wrist, not touching, not retreating. She had wanted him to stay. She had wanted him to cross the threshold she knew she shouldn't open. And now, sitting in the empty breakfast room where her husband had claimed her in front of his servants, she didn't know which want was more dangerous—the one that burned cold or the one that burned warm.
She turned from the window and walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the marble. The house was quiet around her, the kind of quiet that felt like waiting, like the air before thunder. She climbed the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister, and when she reached the landing, she stopped. Her room was to the left. Luca's room was to the right. She stood at the crossroads, the silence pressing against her ears, and she could still feel his thumb on her skin, still taste the honey on her tongue, still hear Matteo's voice in the dark, whispering her name like a promise he was too afraid to keep.
She turned left. Her room to the left. Luca's to the right. But the green dress was in her closet, laid out by the servant's careful hands, and she had until three o'clock to become the woman Luca wanted to show the world. Her bare feet carried her down the hall, past the closed doors she hadn't opened, past portraits of strangers who watched her with dead eyes from gilded frames. When she reached her door, she paused, her hand hovering over the brass handle. The silence on the other side felt different now—not empty, but waiting.
She pushed the door open.
The dress lay across the bed, spread like a second skin waiting to be filled. Deep green, the color of old money and forest shadows, with a collar that rose high at the throat and buttons that ran from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She crossed the room slowly, her fingers finding the fabric—silk, heavier than it looked, cool against her heated skin. She lifted it, felt the weight of it in her hands, and pressed it against her chest. In the mirror across the room, she saw herself: the pale olive skin, the tangled chestnut hair, the eyes that looked too young and too old at once, the dress held against her body like armor she wasn't sure she could wear. She had never worn green. She had never worn anything that demanded to be seen.
She laid the dress back on the bed and walked to the vanity. The ivory dress from breakfast pooled at her feet as she stepped out of it, sliding off her shoulders and hips until she stood in nothing but her underwear, the afternoon light catching the curve of her ribs and the soft swell of her stomach. In the mirror, she saw the marks—not visible, but remembered. The ghost of Luca's thumb on her collarbone. The phantom of Matteo's breath on her throat. The heat of both men's hands on her skin, claiming and releasing, and she pressed her own fingers to the high arch of her neck, tracing the path Luca had traced, feeling the pulse jump beneath her skin.
The collar of the green dress would cover everything. That was the point.
She pulled the dress over her head, the silk sliding down her body like water, and reached behind her to fasten the buttons. Her fingers fumbled, too clumsy, too trembling, and she had to stop and breathe—once, twice, her eyes closing as she pressed her palm flat against the bedpost. When she opened them again, she saw herself in the mirror. The dress fit like it had been made for her, cinched at the waist, falling to just above her knees, the high collar pressing against her throat like a hand that wouldn't let go. She turned, watching the fabric shift, watching the buttons catch the light. She looked like someone Luca would own. She looked like someone Matteo would want.
She stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, her hands at her sides, her breath shallow, and then she reached up and touched the collar. Her fingers pressed against the silk, pressing against her own throat, and she remembered the weight of Luca's palm on her knee, the drag of Matteo's thumb across her collar, the way both men had marked her without her consent and without her resistance. She pushed harder against her throat, just enough to feel the pressure, and held it there as her reflection stared back with eyes full of something she couldn't name.
Behind her, the door clicked open.
She didn't turn. She saw him in the mirror before she heard him speak—a silhouette filling the doorway, broad shoulders and silver hair, the sharp lines of a tailored suit. Her hand dropped from her throat like she'd been caught in the act, and she stood frozen, the green dress pressed against her skin, her eyes locked on his reflection. Luca stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The lock turned with a soft click. She heard his footsteps on the hardwood, slow and deliberate, each one bringing him closer until she could feel the heat of his body behind her, close enough that her shoulders brushed the silk of his jacket when she breathed.
"Turn around." His voice was low, flat, the same voice he'd used at breakfast. She turned, her hands clasped in front of her, and looked up into his gray eyes. He was close—closer than he'd been all day, his chest inches from hers, and she could smell the coffee on his breath and the sharp scent of his cologne. His gaze traveled down her body, from the high collar to the cinched waist to the hem at her knees, and when he looked back at her face, something flickered in his eyes—not approval, not desire, but something older. Something possessive. He reached out and touched the collar, his fingers tracing the edge where it pressed against her throat, and she felt the ghost of Matteo's breath in the same spot, felt the echo of Luca's thumb from the night before, and she didn't know which touch she was remembering and which she was feeling.
"Good," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You'll do." He released the collar and stepped back, his hand falling to his side, and for a moment, the space between them felt wider than the room. She watched him turn, watched him walk to the door, and when his hand touched the handle, he paused. "Three o'clock. Don't keep them waiting." He didn't look back. The door opened, closed, and she was alone again, standing in the middle of her room in a green dress that felt like armor and armor and prayer, her fingers pressed against the high collar that covered every mark both men had left on her skin.
She sat at the vanity. The mirror caught her in the green dress, the high collar pressing against her throat like a second pulse. She reached for the brush—silver-backed, heavy, the bristles still smelling of the lavender oil the servants must have used—and wrapped her fingers around the handle. Her hands were steady now. That surprised her.
She lifted the brush to her hair. The bristles caught at a tangle near her temple, and she pulled through it slowly, the drag of it against her scalp grounding her in the rhythm. One stroke. Two. She watched her reflection in the mirror, the way the dress shifted with each movement, the way the collar stayed immobile, holding her throat in a constant claim. Three strokes. The brush slid through the chestnut waves, smoothing them, ordering them, and she thought about the way Luca's hand had felt on her knee—heavy and warm and certain. And then gone.
Four strokes. She shifted in the chair, the silk of the dress whispering against her thighs. The ghost of his thumb still burned on her bare skin, a phantom pressure she couldn't shake. She pressed her thighs together under the fabric, feeling the heat of it, and the brush paused mid-stroke, her hand hovering over her shoulder. She was already waiting for his touch again. She had been waiting since he withdrew his hand at breakfast.
Five strokes. She pulled the brush through to the ends, the bristles scraping against the base of her skull, and in the mirror she saw the exact spot where Matteo's breath had landed last night. The collar covered it now. But she could still feel the warmth of his whisper, the way he'd said her name like a secret he couldn't keep. She set the brush down, her fingers finding the edge of the collar, pressing against the silk. The fabric was smooth, unyielding, and she pressed harder until she felt the pressure against her windpipe, just enough to remind her she was here, in this room, in this dress, waiting for a man who owned her without ever having touched her.
The clock on the mantel ticked. She could hear it now—the steady beat of it, counting the minutes until three o'clock, until she would descend the stairs in this dress and become the woman Luca wanted the world to see. She picked up the brush again. Six strokes. The rhythm was hypnotic, the silver handle cool against her palm, the bristles catching at another tangle near her crown. She worked it free slowly, deliberately, and watched her own eyes in the mirror. They looked back at her with something she didn't recognize—not fear, not resignation. Something that looked like hunger.
Seven strokes. She thought about the way Luca had touched her collarbone on their wedding night, the single deliberate press of his thumb before he pulled away and left her alone. And then last night, he'd done it again, tracing the same spot, marking her like a map he was still reading. She touched her throat again, her fingers sliding under the edge of the collar, finding the pulse that beat there. It was fast. Unsteady. She held her own wrist and felt the echo of his grip.
Eight strokes. The brush slid through her hair without resistance now, the waves falling in smooth, even lines. She set the brush down and looked at her full reflection—the green dress, the high collar, the chestnut hair swept back from her face. She looked like someone Luca would own. She looked like someone Matteo would want. She didn't know which one was more true, or if both could be true at once.
She reached for the lipstick on the vanity—a shade of deep red she hadn't noticed before, placed there by the same careful hands that had laid out the dress. She uncapped it, twisted the base, and leaned toward the mirror. Her hand was steady as she painted her lips, the color blooming across her mouth like a wound she chose to wear. She pressed her lips together, watching the color even out, and for a moment she looked like someone else. Someone older. Someone who knew what she wanted.
She capped the lipstick and set it down beside the brush. The clock ticked. She had time. She pressed her palm flat against her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat through the silk, and held it there until the rhythm settled into something she could name. Then she reached for the brush again, lifted it to her hair, and began to count the strokes from the beginning.