The charity auction was held at a luxury hotel in Catania, its ballroom dripping in crystal chandeliers and gold-accented walls. Everyone wore black or white—except Sofia.
Alessandro had told her to wear emerald green.
"It'll make you stand out," he said that morning. "That's the point."
She stood out, alright.
From the second they arrived, Sofia felt eyes on her—some assessing, some judging, some barely hiding their surprise.
Was it her age? Her awkward smile? Or the fact that she clung too tightly to Alessandro's arm like a lifeline?
"You're squeezing," he murmured, not unkindly, but not kindly either.
She let go of his arm and folded her hands in front of her dress, trying to breathe.
The ballroom buzzed with music and conversation, wine glasses clinking softly as servers floated through the crowd like ghosts.
Sofia stayed close to Alessandro, even though he barely looked at her. He was busy greeting board members, shaking hands, slipping into fluent French and German depending on who approached.
She was decorative again.
Silent.
Smiling.
Empty.
---
The room was too warm. Her dress itched against her spine. Her heels pinched. Her mouth was dry.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the mirrored columns—she looked pale beneath the stage lights, eyes wide and distant.
"You look beautiful," a voice said from behind.
It wasn't Alessandro.
It was one of the older guests—a man she didn't know. His accent was British, his tone rich with something too smooth to be respectful.
She gave a polite smile, stepping back slightly. "Thank you."
"You're the girl, aren't you? The one Moretti's marrying."
"Yes."
The man chuckled. "Can't imagine why. You don't exactly seem his type."
Sofia's chest tightened.
He moved on before she could respond. She stared at the floor for a long moment, willing the sting in her eyes to disappear.
She told herself it didn't matter. That he was no one.
But his words sliced deeper than they should have.
You don't exactly seem his type.
---
By the time the charity auction began, she felt like she couldn't breathe.
People stood in front of the stage as the auctioneer called out lots—luxury vacations, vintage wines, antique weapons.
Sofia stood behind a pillar, hands shaking slightly. Her chest was tight, like invisible ropes were being pulled slowly inward. Her throat burned.
She couldn't see Alessandro anymore.
Her gaze darted over the crowd.
Too many people. Too much noise. No exits that didn't feel a mile away.
Her breathing grew shallow.
Her heart raced.
She gripped the edge of the pillar, nails digging into the wood.
Not now. Please not now.
But the panic was already rising like a tide. She knew the signs. The way the air seemed to thin. The tunnel vision. The prickling in her hands.
Someone touched her elbow lightly and she flinched, recoiling too fast.
It was a waiter.
"Miss? Would you like water?"
She nodded too quickly, took the glass with trembling fingers, and walked away without drinking.
Her legs moved without direction. She pushed through a side door into a small lounge—empty, dimly lit, quiet.
She collapsed into a velvet chair and pulled her purse onto her lap.
Her fingers scrambled for the small silver pill case inside.
One white tablet. She let it dissolve under her tongue.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She counted to ten. Then twenty.
The roaring in her ears slowly began to fade.
Her breathing steadied. Just a little.
But when she opened her eyes, Alessandro stood in the doorway.
And he looked furious.
---
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
His voice was low and sharp.
Sofia straightened immediately, hiding the pill case in her purse and snapping it shut.
"I just needed air," she said quickly.
"You disappeared in the middle of the event. My father's guests were asking where you went."
"I—I had to step out. I didn't feel well."
He stared at her. "Convenient."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"You're not stupid, Sofia. You know how these things work. Appearances matter. So if you're playing some game—"
"I'm not—"
"—to get attention or sympathy, this is not the place."
Her mouth fell open. "You think I planned this?"
His eyes narrowed. "You've been uneasy since we arrived. Distant. And now you vanish the moment someone makes a comment you don't like?"
She stood slowly. "I had a panic attack."
The words hung in the air.
It was the first time she'd said them aloud to him.
His jaw tightened. "Then you should've told me."
"I didn't think you'd care."
They stared at each other.
He broke first—turning away, one hand pressed against his forehead.
"Don't do this again," he said finally. "If you need space, you tell me. If you're unwell, you say it. But disappearing during a public event makes me look weak."
That was what mattered. Not her chest aching or the pills dissolving on her tongue. Not her spiraling thoughts or white-hot fear.
Just how she made him look.
She nodded once. "Understood."
He glanced at her then, and for a fleeting second, something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe.
But he didn't apologize.
He never did.
---
Back at the estate, Sofia changed out of her dress and curled under the blankets, fully clothed in sweatpants and an oversized shirt.
Her phone buzzed.
Daisy 🌼:
Hey, want to grab coffee tomorrow? We could go to that bookstore near the marina.
Sofia stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
Yes. What time?