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The rest follows the binder. Teeth are brushed to a song she chose years ago and only listens to while she brushes. Then I read her one chapter of a Pip book, where the wren debates with a seagull about beach ownership. Sarah falls asleep before the seagull admits defeat.

When I straighten the blanket, Diana is in the doorway holding folded laundry. She looks at the rinsed pill cup drying on the dresser, then at her sleeping granddaughter. Last comes me, and she gives me one centimeter of a nod and leaves without a word.

I have no clue what that means, so I head back down for water.

The kitchen is located at the end of a hall, and to get there, I have to walk past a room Lupo said was a study on the tour. Now, it’s got an open door with lamplight and voices behind it. I don’t mean to spy. But how else will I know what the hell is going on around here? It’s not like Lupo is ever straight with me.

Throughout the night, Diana’s English stayed smooth and fluent, but now, a braided blend of both languages emerges through the door, with strands intertwined. “The doctor, she keeps the child alive, bene, sì. But is that all she is here for, Lupo? What is her story? The pretty ones with the empty pockets always find you first.”

His answer rides too low to survive the door. But he’s a little annoyed—I hear it in his tone.

“My mother’s ring is on a stranger’s hand after two weeks. Dimmi la verità.”

“The truth, Ma, is that she keeps our girl alive. The ring is nothing compared to that.”

“Sì. And I will light candles for her hands every Sunday. Hands are not a marriage, Lupo. Neither is her taking the family fortune.”

“Ma.” His voice stays quiet even then, and the quiet does nothing to blunt it. “Don’t you trust me? I run everything else⁠—”

“It was one thing when you let dumb women take you for a ride. But this one is smart. That’s dangerous.”

His voice dips low again, and I can’t hear what he’s saying.

She cuts in with, “You run straight into love the moment a beautiful woman looks at you. No matter her family, no matter her money. You cannot let Sarah fall in love with her until you know her…” I cannot parse through the Italian that follows, but she ends with, “Do not let my baby girl get hurt again⁠—”

“Ma. Enough.”

I don’t want to hear any of this. I take my water glass back the long way, through the dark dining room, pulse loud in my ears.

Her English was flawless with me. All night. Every course.

With her son, the languages blend, and the blend is the tell. I’ve watched bilingual parents do it at bedsides for years—English for the staff, the mother tongue for whatever truly matters. Diana speaks her worry in two languages because one can’t hold it.

And I don’t need a translator to tell me that she thinks the American doctor married her son for his money.

She’s not wrong.

An account with my name on it holds five years of my salary, with five more promised on the back end. I made him show me when we landed. The money is there. So, her suspicion isn’t paranoia.

Which means I can’t defend myself without detonating everything, because the honest defense is worse than the crime she suspects.

No, signora, I’m not after his money—he pays me a flat fee, and the marriage is a mask.

The marital bedroom is located at the end of the west hall, behind a door secured with an iron latch. Dark wood and white plaster. A leather chair sits by the window, with a blanket folded so carefully it has to be deliberate. A painting on a far wall catches my eye.

A woman in profile, beautiful, pale, with long dark hair. She looks slightly over her shoulder at the painter as if he’s not worth her attention, but she’s intrigued anyway.

Books line one entire wall, their spines cracked from real reading, and a stack of oncology journals rests on the nightstand beneath a glasses case. That detail catches my attention. He wasn’t just acting as if he reads them. He genuinely does.

Though that much was obvious when he started quoting me back to me.

My clothes are already in his closet. Someone unpacked me while we ate—sweaters folded on shelves next to his, shoes arranged on a rack, and my toiletry bag placed at the bathroom sink. My toothbrush is in a cup beside his, leaning toward it.

On the dresser, my jewelry dish with blue enamel sits, brought across an ocean to hold the huge ring at night. The meticulousness always feels like a threat disguised as a favor. An artificial intimacy, yet it still affects me.

I resent the fact that it’s manufactured most of all.

The faked closeness hurts in the strangest way. Maybe because I’m play-acting at something I’ve never had and always wanted. But my life doesn’t leave time for this kind of thing. It never has.