I crept up the staircase, each step measured, silent, as I strained not to rouse my parents from sleep. As I nudged it open, the wooden door to my room groaned in protest. My pulse thundered in my ears. Just one misstep could expose everything.
Inside, the room lay undisturbed. Soft rustlings of blankets and the occasional snore drifted through the walls. I eased the door shut and tiptoed toward my bed, each movement rehearsed, deliberate.
When I finally collapsed onto the mattress, laughter bubbled from my lips, quiet, victorious. I had done it again. For five years, I’d slipped in and out like a shadow, indulging in my hunger for Balthazar beneath the noses of those who thought they ruled my fate. And not once had I been caught.
I lay there, heart racing, blood thrumming. The chaos he awakened in me pulsed like lightning in my veins. It was intoxicating—a delicious, dangerous kind of freedom that fed the seething darkness inside me.
Still breathless, I reached for my journal. I rolled onto my stomach, uncapped the ink, and pressed the pen to parchment.
Dear Journal,
I’ve been with Balthazar for many years. He is as fascinating as he is unknowable. The mystery that surrounds him only deepens my desire. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly understand him... but gods, I want to. I want to decipher every inch of him—mind, body, soul.
I wrote until the ink ran dry, pouring every secret, every desire, into the pages of that book. When I could write no more, I set it aside, rose from bed, and performed my morning ablutions.
By the time I descended for breakfast, my face wore the practiced serenity of a dutiful daughter.
But inside, the fire still burned.
And it belonged to him.
The first light of dawn crept through the tall windows of our grand estate, painting the dining room in soft gold. The long mahogany table gleamed in the morning glow, already set with a lavish spread. Warm loaves of freshly baked bread steamed gently beside glass jars of homemade jam, their ruby and amber hues catching the sun. Bowls of vibrant fruit—plump berries, sliced melons, and figs—sat like jewels on silver platters.
The rich, comforting aroma of roasted coffee beans drifted through the air, mingling with the sweet scents of fruit and bread. It was a feast for the senses—warm, decadent, and deceptively peaceful.
In the hearth, flames danced merrily, casting shadows on the stone walls. Ornate tapestries, embroidered with ancient stories, framed the room, while priceless paintings presided over the mantel like silent sentinels. Silver chandeliers sparkled overhead, their facets catching the early light.
Matilda, our ever-efficient servant, bustled between the table and the kitchen doors, setting out fine china with practiced precision, folding napkins just so, and adjusting each dish with a discerning touch.
It was a beautiful morning, idyllic even. And yet, as I took my place at the table, the memory of Balthazar’s kiss still clung to my lips like the taste of something forbidden and sweet. I carried our secret night like a hidden flame in my chest. The sunlight seemed to shine a little brighter because of him.
Mother and Father were already seated, their attention on the morning news sheet.
“Good morning, Papa,” I said, kissing his cheek.
“Good morning, Mammina,” I added, moving around the table to kiss her soft temple.
“Good morning, dear,” Mother replied absently, her eyes not leaving the page.
Papa, however, looked up.
His gaze caught mine and held it.
“You look cheerful,” he said, his voice threaded with suspicion. There was something in how he said it—searching, as if he were testing me. “Is it the picnic with Lord Amato that has you so delighted? Or is it… Something else?”
My stomach clenched at the name.
Davide Amato.
I had tucked him away in the farthest corner of my mind, hoping to forget the inevitable. But now, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, he was back—looming.
The thought of being alone with him made my skin crawl. Still, I couldn’t let Papa see the revulsion that curdled in my stomach.
So, I smiled.
Sweet. Practiced. Lethal.
“It’ll be nice,” I said, the words hollow, the lie barely stitched together. I tried to sound excited, but all I could think about was how desperately I wanted to escape into Balthazar’s arms.
