The shower was long, hot, steam filling the space until I could barely see my own reflection. Shouldn't I feel violated? Traumatized?
Instead I felt confused. And if I was honest—the most disturbing part—still wanting.
That scared me more than anything else.
When I emerged, wrapped in Cesare's robe, I found something on the bed that I hadn’t noticed before.
A note in sharp, masculine handwriting:Had to leave early. Wear this tonight. We have an event.
Next to it, a garment bag from a designer boutique.
When I pulled the covering away the dress made my breath catch. Emerald green silk—the exact color of my eyes—custom-made for my measurements. He'd paid attention to details I hadn't known he'd noticed.
A jewelry box sat beside it. Inside, diamond earrings and a matching necklace that probably cost more than my yearly salary at the gallery.
The gifts should have felt like pretty chains. They did. But they were also beautiful.
I hated that I wanted to wear the dress. Hated more that I wanted to see his reaction when he saw me in it.
The card tucked in the jewelry box held only five words:You'll be beautiful. Trust me.
Trust. What a word to use.
The elevator chimed at noon.
My heart jumped—Cesare home early?—but Piero emerged instead, carrying takeout bags and wearing a disarming smile.
"Buongiorno, cognata," he greeted. Sister-in-law.
"Cesare didn't mention you were coming."
"He doesn't know. I'm here unofficially." He held up the bags. "I brought lunch. Figured you might want company that isn't my terrifying older brother."
Despite myself, something loosened in my chest. "Is that allowed?"
"Probably not. But I've always been better at asking forgiveness than permission."
Against my better judgment, I followed him to the kitchen.
Piero unpacked pasta, fresh bread, homemade cannoli. He moved around Cesare's sterile kitchen like he owned it, making easy conversation about the weather, the city, anything but the obvious elephant in the room. I couldn’t help but wonder howoften he came over, and if this odd situation was keeping him away. Maybe I could get some insight into the man I’d married from his brother, who seemed all too happy to ramble as I sat and listened.
I was so starved for normal conversation I almost cried into mycarbonara.
But I wasn't naive. This wasn't purely social; it was, like everything else in Cesare’s world, transactional.
"You can ask," I said finally. "Whatever you came here to find out."
Piero's smile turned rueful. "My brother said you were perceptive."
"What did he send you to learn?"
"He sent me to make sure you're okay."
That surprised me. "He could check on me himself."
"Could he? Cesare's not exactly skilled at emotions. Vulnerability. Caring."
The word "caring" hung between us.
