A voice bellowed from outside. “Francesco! Where are you?”
He sat up, fumbling to dress. “It’s the groomsman—I must go.” He leaned down, planting a quick kiss on my lips, entirely unaware of the performance he’d just played into. “May your talk with your father prove fruitful.”
I watched him scramble down the ladder like a loyal mutt.
“I’m on my way!” he shouted, disappearing into the dark.
I remained still in the hayloft, waiting for the voices below to vanish. Then—slowly—I reached down and clawed at my flesh.
Deep, red trails welled up beneath my nails as pain bloomed across my arms and chest. My breath hitched, my body trembling. But not from shame.
From purpose.
I scraped at my cheeks, dragging my nails until my skin throbbed with heat and stung with rage. I bit down on my lip, muffling the scream that clawed at my throat. With one hand, Iripped at my skirt, tearing it jagged and crude, then raked my fingers through my hair until the roots burned.
I would look unmade.
I would look ruined.
I descended the ladder with shallow, frantic breaths. The barn was hushed, shadows stretching long beneath the moonlight. I glanced around, watchful—no one in sight.
The air was thick with the smell of grass and damp soil. I darted through the darkness, but voices suddenly broke the stillness—male, rough, too close. My heart leaped. I froze, shrinking back against the barn wall like a ghost.
The voices faded. Silence returned.
I ran.
Tears pricked my eyes—not from fear, but from the hair I wrenched at mercilessly, twisting it into wild chaos. My skin burned, my lip bled. Good.
By the time I stumbled through the front doors, I was breathless, eyes wide with carefully crafted panic.
“Papa!” I screamed, broken and raw. “Oh, Papa!”
Footsteps thundered toward me.
“Lady Tocino!” Beatrice’s shriek pierced the air. “What on earth—what has happened to you?”
“Where is my father?” I sobbed, clutching Beatrice’s sleeve. “Something awful has happened!”
“He’s in the drawing room, sipping brandy. Come with me!” She seized my hand and pulled me along, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
The drawing room opened before us like a sacred hall, opulent and imposing. High vaulted arches stretched heavenward, their gilded foliage catching the candlelight like divine fire. Each arch bore a Biblical painting—Eden, the Flood, the Last Supper—watching over the space with silent judgment.
Velvet-lined walls whispered wealth and power, embroidered with threads so fine they looked spun from gold. Sconces flanked every few feet, casting a warm flicker across the space. The scent of burning oak drifted from the limestone hearth at the room’s heart, carved with the Tocino coat of arms, proud and unyielding.
Beneath my feet, the family crest sprawled across an ornate,soft, and suffocating rug. Mahogany furniture gleamed with pastoral carvings—shepherds in fields, angels among mortals. Brocade cushions cradled every chair like thrones—everything, every inch, reeked of legacy.
Above the mantel, Papa’s portrait loomed, his painted eyes following me with cold precision. Regal. Eternal. Unforgiving.
And in the far corner, a harpsichord stood in silence, its keys like ivory teeth waiting to bite.
The room was perfect—a sanctuary of power, luxury, and silence.
And I—bloodied, torn, a tangle of deception—was its desecration.
Papa turned at the sound of my arrival. His face twisted into alarm, eyes widening as he dropped his glass.
“My child!” he thundered, rising from his seat.
