Rich. Deep.
Designed to melt on the tongue.
Saffron risotto—golden, delicate.
Stirred patiently, until each grain reached the exact point of creaminess without losing structure.
Roasted heirloom carrots glazed with aged balsamic and thyme—sweet, earthy, balanced.
A fennel and blood-orange salad—sharp brightness cutting through the heavier dishes, dressed with olive oil from Vincenzo’s private grove.
And dessert—dark chocolate soufflés.
Individual.
Timed.
Each one prepared so perfectly that when they were placed before their intended guests, the centers would still be molten.
Everything here was perfect.
Or it was meant to be.
My eyes flicked over the spread.
Then away.
Not because I was impressed.
But because I refused to feel anything about it.
It had been less than two hours since I returned from the academy, and already I was expected to stand in this damned kitchen, preparing a meal for my husband and the woman he clearly preferred.
The thought alone tightened something sharp in my chest.
But being here—just this—was as far as I was willing to go.
I would not play along.
Standing here, alone, with the silence pressing in from all sides while Violet sat in the dining hall like she belonged there—like a queen at the head of a kingdom that should have been mine—was already insult enough.
I wasn’t going to add humiliation to it.
The CCTV camera in the ceiling stared down at me.
A small, blinking dome.
I knew exactly what it would capture.
Or rather—what it wouldn’t.
Me.
Standing still.
Uninvolved. Unwilling.
Let it record.
