This isn't just a home. It's a fortress.
I realise as we are entering that the interior is even more impressive than the exterior—soaring ceilings with intricate coffers, marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and furniture that probably costs more than most people's homes. The air smells of lemon polish and fresh flowers.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Feretti," Damiano says, his voice low and mocking.
I resist the urge to correct him. This isn't my home. This is enemy territory.
My stomach tightens as Damiano leads me up thegrand staircase. This is it. The moment I've been dreading since this whole charade began—sharing a bedroom with a monster.
We walk down a long corridor lined with what look like original oil paintings. The rugs beneath our feet muffle our footsteps, and sconces cast soft, golden light on the walls.
"Your things arrived this morning," Damiano says, breaking the silence. "The staff has unpacked everything."
I nod, not trusting my voice. My heart hammers against my ribs. I'm trying to prepare myself for what's coming, to remind myself that this is just part of the mission. That sometimes sacrifices must be made for justice.
Damiano stops in front of a set of double doors, his hand still resting on my back.
"This is your room," he says, pushing the door open.
I blink. "My room?"
"Yes." His eyes find mine, unreadable. "My room is on the other side of the floor."
Relief washes over me so suddenly I almost stumble.
"I'll see you in the morning," he continues. "Breakfast is at eight."
"Good night," I manage to say, stepping quickly into the room and closing the door—no, slamming it—behind me.
I lean against it, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. My legs feel weak. I won't have to share his bed. I won't have to pretend in the dark. At least not tonight.
A soft knock pulls me from sleep. I bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding as I try to remember where I am. The Feretti mansion. My wedding night. Separate rooms.
"Signora? Are you awake?" The voice is gentle, maternal, lightly accented.
"Yes," I call out, my voice still rough with sleep. "Come in."
The door opens to reveal a plump woman in her sixties with silver-streaked brown hair pulled into a neat bun. She wears a crisp black uniform with a white apron and carries herself with quiet dignity.
"Good morning, Signora Feretti. I am Ginerva, the head of household staff." Her kind brown eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes. The family is gathering in the main dining room."
The family. My stomach tightens. I'm now part of the Feretti family—at least on paper.
"Thank you, Ginerva. I'll be down shortly."
She nods, hesitates, then adds, "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. I've been with the family for thirty years." Something in her expression suggests genuine concern.
"I appreciate that," I reply, surprised by her warmth.
After she leaves, I take my first real look at my new living quarters in the daylight. Last night, I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to notice details.
The room is breathtaking—larger than my entire apartment at college. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the manicured gardens. The walls are painted a soft cream color that makes the space feel both elegant and inviting. A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, dressed in linens so fine they feel like water against my skin.
Across from the bed stands an antique vanity with an ornate mirror, displaying my personal items perfectly arranged—someone took care to place my perfumes and makeup exactly as I had them at Byron's house.
The sitting area features a chaise lounge and two velvet armchairs positioned near a white marble fireplace. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, still empty, waiting for me to fill them.
Two doors lead off the main room—one to a walk-in closet where my clothes hang in perfect order, and another to a private bathroom with a soaking tub and separate shower.
