Not a home.
A fortress.
Glass and steel rose from the hillside in brutal symmetry, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, colder than the old villa had ever been. No warmth. No history. Just dominance carved into architecture, staring down at the lake like it owned the water itself.
The car slowed and rolled into the courtyard.
Dmitri parked and got out without a word.
I followed, my heels crunching against gravel, the wedding gown’s train dragging behind me like a mistake I couldn’t shake.He stood a few feet away, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders squared, face unreadable.
The urge to speak clawed up my throat.
“I—” I started, the truth rising like bile. Let it burn. Let it all burn.
“Apologies.”
The word stopped me cold.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. His voice was rough, scraped raw. “I lost my head. Penelope’s been a ghost for five years.” A pause. “Your resemblance... it’s something. But that doesn’t give me the right to accuse you.”
I searched his face, waiting for the trap.
It didn’t come.
“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he added. Controlled. Distant. Finished.
Relief flooded me—bitter and unwelcome. He was letting it go.
For now.
I nodded once, keeping my face neutral. “Thank you.”
“Come in,” he said, already turning toward the doors.
Inside, the foyer opened into dizzying space. A waterfall cascaded down black stone into a glowing koi pond, the fish gliding silently beneath the surface like living jewels.
Everything was immaculate. Cold. Perfect.
I didn’t admire it.
I headed straight for the suite he’d assigned us.
I half-expected him to stop me—to remind me that wives didn’t get separate quarters, that contracts didn’t override ownership. He didn’t.
He let me walk away.
The suite was exactly as I’d left it. Vanya’s side bursting with color and soft chaos—pillows, books, toy dinosaurs lined up with military precision. My side restrained, minimal, quiet.
I locked the door.
The sound echoed.
My knees gave out and I slid down the wood paneling, breath finally shuddering out of me. My heart was still racing, still screaming danger.
Vanya wasn’t here yet. Giovanni was bringing him separately, as promised.
I stood, stripped out of the wedding gown, and let it fall to the floor in a heap. Ivory silk. Silver thread. A lie stitched beautifully enough to fool the world.
