Alessandro hadn't said a word to her after the dinner.
Not in the car.
Not in the hallway.
Not even the usual cool dismissal or half-hearted "good night."
And that was fine. She preferred the silence.
She sat by the window in her room now, knees tucked to her chest, watching the sky shift from deep violet to midnight blue.
Something had changed.
She'd seen it in his eyes at the dinner table.
For the first time since their engagement, he'd looked at her like she was something other than an inconvenience. Not warmth, not fondness—but awareness.
As if she'd slipped out of the neat box he had placed her in.
He hadn't known she was allergic to seafood.
She wasn't sure why that mattered so much—but it did.
---
The next morning, she found a note on her breakfast tray.
"Be ready by 10. We're going out. —A"
She stared at the scribbled initials.
Out?
She almost thought it was a mistake.
But at 10:00 a.m. sharp, Alessandro was at her door, dressed in a dark coat, hands in his pockets.
No guards. No one else.
Just him.
"You ready?" he asked.
Sofia blinked. "Where are we going?"
He looked at her for a moment. "Just get in the car."
---
The drive was quiet at first.
He didn't put on music, didn't make small talk. But he also didn't carry the same hard tension in his jaw she was used to.
After about fifteen minutes, he spoke.
"Do you always carry that pill case in your purse?"
Her throat tightened. "What?"
"At the auction. You had a panic attack." His voice was low, not confrontational. "I saw the case."
She looked out the window. "Sometimes I get overwhelmed."
A pause.
"You didn't tell anyone."
"I didn't think it was something you'd care to know."
Another pause. This one longer.
"That was my mistake," he said finally.
She turned to him, startled.
Alessandro kept his eyes on the road, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel.
"I've never had to think about... those things. Allergies. Anxiety. What someone else might need."
Sofia didn't know what to say to that.
So she didn't say anything.
---
They stopped at a small hilltop park outside the city.
From the edge, the view overlooked rooftops and ocean and mountains painted in hazy gray-blue.
It was quiet.
Peaceful.
"I used to come here with my mother," he said, hands in his coat pockets. "Before everything changed."
Sofia looked at him.
"You don't talk about her."
"No. I don't." He exhaled slowly. "She hated this world. She tried to protect me from it. Failed, obviously."
Sofia studied his profile. The rigid lines of it softened slightly in the morning light.
"You still carry her with you," she said gently.
His jaw flexed. "Sometimes I think I carry her guilt more than her love."
That stunned her. Not because of what he said—but because he said it at all.
---
They walked the rest of the park loop in silence, but it wasn't the awkward kind.
It was thoughtful.
She noticed the way he slowed his pace to match hers.
The way his hand hovered near the small of her back when they stepped over a cracked path.
Little things. Subtle.
Not tenderness exactly.
But a shift.
Like maybe, for the first time, he was seeing her not as an obligation—but as a person.
---
Later that night, back at the estate, she found another note slipped under her door.
"If there's anything else I don't know—tell me."
It wasn't signed, but she knew the handwriting.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the note trembling between her fingers.
Maybe nothing had changed. Maybe everything had.
But for the first time, Sofia didn't feel entirely alone in the house.
---