Sandro exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “He’s obsessed,” he mutters. “I don’t think he’s slept since…” He trails off, not finishing the thought. He doesn’t have to.
I reach for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Then let’s make sure he gets what he’s fighting for.”
His grip tightens around mine, and something like gratitude passes over his features before he tugs me toward the stairs.
Our footsteps echo up the grand staircase, dust puffing around our ankles. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a whisper in the dark. Raf’s bedroom door closes down the hall, and the silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable—just… vast.
Sandro pushes open a door near the end of the west wing. “This was my room,” he says. The light from the hallway spills across the floor, revealing layers of dust and the remnants of cobwebs in the corners.
“It’s not as bad as I expected,” I admit, stepping inside.
The furniture is still intact—solid wood, dark and polished, though covered in a layer of ash.
Sandro runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
I nod, but there’s a faint chill that runs through me as I look toward the window. The curtains are near shredded, flutteringslightly from the draft that seeps through the cracks in the glass. The air smells faintly of damp and old paper.
After airing out the sheets and washing up, we crawl into the bed. The mattress creaks under our combined weight, and I curl instinctively against Sandro, trying to ignore the groan of the house settling around us.
Sandro’s arm wraps around me, heavy and grounding. “You okay?” he murmurs.
I hesitate. The house feels… creepy, especially now as we’re contemplating sleep. Every time the pipes rattle, it feels like the house is alive. But Raf has stationed a small army around the perimeter of the house, and with Sandro by my side, I feel like nothing could get to me, even if it tried.
“I’m fine,” I promise, though my tone isn’t as convincing as I would like.
Sandro presses his lips softly against my hair. “You’re safe. I promise.”
And maybe it’s foolish, but the promise feels like something sacred in that moment. His heartbeat is a steady rhythm beneath my ear, his body warm and solid. Gradually, the unease fades, replaced by the slow drift of exhaustion. Wrapped in Sandro’s arms, I drift off to the sound of the wind pushing against the broken walls.
As sunlight filters through the torn curtains the next morning, I’m already awake. Sandro’s gone, though his scent lingers—soap and smoke, familiar now. A note sits on the nightstand in his bold handwriting.
Staff will arrive by 8. Guards stay until I return. Don’t overdo it, Sunshine.
I smile despite myself.
By midmorning, the front drive fills with cars—cleaners, gardeners, even a small security team meant personally for me. The guards are clearly meant for protection, but I can’t resist putting them to work hauling old furniture and boxes out of the main hall. They don’t argue. I think they’re too stunned to be ordered around by someone half their size.
We start with the grand entryway. Cobwebs come down, marble floors are scrubbed until they shine faintly again. I organize the teams, directing furniture to different rooms, calling in contractors to assess the damage in the east wing.
When one of them asks if I’m “the lady of the house,” I pause for only a second.
“Yes.”
Because I am. If Raf were to marry, of course, his wife would take that title. But I don’t get the feeling that’s going to happen anytime soon. Still, the title sits strangely on my tongue, and yet, I feel a sense of pride behind it. I’m determined to make this broken mansion beautiful again.
I spend hours coordinating repairs, taking notes, moving between rooms. The more I see of the house, the more potential I uncover beneath the ruin. A cracked archway still bears intricate carvings. The dining hall’s chandelier just needs a newset of crystals. The ballroom could be breathtaking once the bloodstains and bullet holes are removed.
By the time the sun dips low in the sky, I’m covered in dust but exhilarated. The mansion feels less like a tomb now and more like a sleeping giant finally stirring.
By day ten, the house hums with life again.
Workers come and go, cleaners buzz from room to room, and the faint scent of paint and polish fills the halls. Every day, I wake with purpose—organizing deliveries, overseeing restorations, planning how the main hall will look when the families arrive to swear their loyalty to Raf.
I’ve learned which tiles in the foyer creak, which windows let in the most light, which rooms can still make me feel small. But it’s starting to feel like home.
I’m making notes for the ceremony layout when a sharp cramp twists in my abdomen. At first, I ignore it, assuming I’ve just gone too long without eating. But when the ache deepens, spreading low and sharp, dread starts to prickle at the back of my neck.
No. Please, no.
