Instead, he led me to the bathroom. He’d run a bath, undressed me with an unnerving tenderness, and washed my hair. His strong fingers massaged my scalp with a shocking gentleness before rinsing the product and the panic away. He dried me with a towel so soft it felt like a cloud and tucked me into bed, placing a kiss on my forehead that was so devoid of lust. So purely something else, that it left me more unsettled than any rough possession ever could.
It felt like more than the pampering of a beloved pet. A pet is cared for out of obligation or fondness. This, this felt like reverence. Like he was cleansing me of the contamination of his own world, or perhaps, anointing me for a deeper level of immersion.
The ambiguity is a poison in its own right, seeping into the cracks of my resolve.
I realise that Antonio can be two things, two people all at once. He can be the man who destroyed my parents, who orchestrated their downfall. And he can also be the man who cares for me, who treasures me, who loves me and who I… no, I cannot say it, I cannot think it. I…
The click of the door opening snaps me from my reverie. I turn, my heart giving a treacherous, hopeful leap. It must be Antonio. Maybe he’s returned to explain the quiet ritual of the bath, to give a name to this new, unsettling whatever the fuck it is between us.
But the figure that steps into the sun-drenched room is not him. It’s Mateus.
I freeze instantly, the glass of water turning to ice in my hand. He fills the space differently than Antonio. Antonio commands a room with a simmering intensity; Mateus sucks the warmth from it. He’s dressed immaculately as always, a sharp-lined suit in a light grey that should look summery but instead resembles forged steel.
What does he want?
His eyes are the same shade of brown as his brother’s, but they’re devoid of their fleeting warmth. He scans me from head to toe, taking in my simple robe, my bare feet, the vulnerability I am so acutely aware of.
He takes a few steps closer, stopping a polite yet menacing distance away. “You look pale. All the travelling and then that party was too much for you, I think.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation.
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice barely a whisper. It’s not like it matters anyway. I am here to entertain Antonio, in whatever manner he chooses.
A thin smile plays on his lips. “I doubt that.” He clasps his hands behind his back, a general inspecting a dubious recruit. “I think you are very far from fine, and I believe I can help you.”
The words hang in the air, cold and wrong. Help? From him? Every instinct screams trap as my fingers tighten around the glass. “Help me with what?”
“With this.” He gestures vaguely, a circular motion that seems to encompass the entire villa, my life, my soul. “This situation. I know you want out, Grace. I’m not a fool. I know how much you must hate my brother for what he did to your parents.”
The way he says my name, the way he speaks it, it’s not soft, it’s not anything but an insult.
The air leaves my lungs. I feel the raw, bleeding truth of his words and I stiffen, every muscle locking into place. Thisisa trap. He’s baiting me, waiting for me to confess, to give him a reason to, to do what? To punish me? To tell Antonio I’m ungrateful, disobedient?
I force my face into a mask of blank confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mateus’s smile widens, becoming a chilling thing. He doesn’t believe me for a second. “No? You know they carved his heart out, don’t you? You know Magnus took a bite out of it while it was still beating. You must lie in that bed next to him at night and dream of vengeance.” He pauses, letting the horrifying accuracy of his words sink their claws deeper into me. “How it must kill you to know you cannot fight him.”
He moves then, a swift, fluid motion. His right hand emerges from behind his back. Between his thumb and forefinger he holds a small glass vial, no larger than my thumbnail. It is filled with a clear liquid, innocent-looking, like a drop of water captured in glass. He extends it toward me.
“This is a way out,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s cyanide. Quick. Painless, relatively speaking. You drink this, and in a few minutes, all your pain is over. The shame, the hatred, the humiliation. It all just stops.”
It feels like the world tilts. The sunlit room, the view of Rome, the lingering throb in my head; it all recedes into a muffled, echoing tunnel. The only things that exist are Mateus’s impassive eyes and the tiny, deadly vial in his hand.
My mind scrambles, trying to find the angle, the cruel punchline to this horrific joke.
My voice, when I find it, is strangled. “Why? Why would you give this to me?” A desperate, defiant thought surfaces, a flicker of the person I used to be. “What if I didn’t take it myself? What if I slipped it into his drink instead?”
The laugh that escapes him is short, harsh, and utterly devoid of humour. It’s the sound of dry bones rattling. “You?” he sneers. “You would never have the guts to do such a thing. You are a coward, Grace. It’s written in every submissive curve of your body when you’re near him. It shows in the way you give yourself over to every man he introduces you to, like the well-trained whore you are.”
The words hit me with physical force, and my face ignites with a heat so intense it feels like a brand.
Shame, hot and corrosive floods my veins, burning away the last remnants of my pride.
I want to scream, I want to throw the water in my glass in his smug, cruel face.
I want to deny it, to shout that I have no choice, that I am surviving the only way I know how. But the retort dies in my throat, suffocated by the devastating truth in his accusation. He has seen my shame, and he has witnessed me performing for his brother the very way he just described.
“You are a liability,” he continues, his voice cold and analytical once more. “An emotional crack in my brother’s armour. A risk I would prefer to see eliminated. This is the cleanest way for everyone.”
