The morning air was still and heavy, as though the walls themselves held their breath in anticipation. Sofia sat curled up by the window in a worn chair that didn't match the grandeur of the Moretti estate. It was her favorite spot—one of the few places where she felt unnoticed.
She hadn't seen Alessandro since the night of the rooftop incident.
His note still sat on her bedside table: We'll talk when you're ready.
She had read it a hundred times.
And yet, she hadn't dared cross the hallway.
Her fingers traced the rim of the teacup in her hands. The tea had long gone cold, but the act of holding something warm, something simple, helped keep her grounded.
She heard footsteps outside.
Measured. Familiar.
A soft knock.
Her pulse fluttered. "Come in."
Alessandro stood at the door. Not in one of his custom suits, but a dark gray sweater and slacks. Casual. Less intimidating. Still entirely him.
His eyes searched her face. Not sharp, but quiet. Careful.
"Can I come in?"
She nodded.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, lingering near the desk before finally sitting across from her.
Silence stretched.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "For how I spoke to you that night."
Sofia blinked. Of all the things she thought he might say, that wasn't it.
"I shouldn't have come to the lounge like that," she said. "I shouldn't have gotten drunk."
He frowned. "You don't owe me an apology. Not for needing air. Not for needing space."
She stared at her hands. "Your grandfather scares me."
"I know," he said softly.
She looked up at him. "You didn't say anything when he said those things. About the wedding. About… children."
Alessandro leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "In my world, silence is sometimes safer than speaking. But you're right. I should have said something."
"Do you want it?" she asked quietly. "The wedding. The future he laid out."
He was quiet for a long time.
"I want control of my life," he finally said. "Right now, that future is the price I pay for peace."
"And me?"
His jaw tightened. "You were never supposed to be part of this."
It hurt more than it should've. She swallowed, forcing herself not to react.
"But now you are," he added. "And I see you, Sofia. I don't understand you yet, but I see you. That matters, doesn't it?"
She wasn't sure what to say.
So instead, she nodded. And in that tiny motion, something fragile passed between them.
Not trust.
Not love.
But maybe the beginning of something that could survive them both.
---
The following day, the family gathered in the garden for a formal brunch—an old Moretti tradition held every month. Sofia had only attended once before, and even then, she'd barely spoken. Today, her stomach churned with quiet dread.
The garden was as beautiful as ever. Long white-clothed tables stretched beneath the pergola, and golden sunlight filtered through vines of blooming wisteria. There was laughter and murmured conversations, the clink of glasses, the rustle of expensive fabrics.
Sofia wore a pale pink dress that Daisy had picked for her. Simple, flowing, soft. It made her feel… delicate. Breakable.
Alessandro was already seated when she arrived. He stood as she approached—a gesture that startled her more than anything he'd said in the past week.
"You came," he said simply.
She nodded. "I didn't want to."
"Neither did I."
He gestured to the seat beside him, and she sat. Conversation swirled around them. Waiters moved like shadows, topping off champagne and serving delicate hors d'oeuvres.
Sofia tried to focus on the food, on the sound of birds, anything but the judging glances and whispered remarks from nearby relatives.
"She's too young."
"Pretty, though. In a soft way."
"Do you think she'll last?"
She stared down at her plate.
Alessandro noticed.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "You don't have to listen to them."
"But I do."
His hand brushed hers beneath the table. Not a full touch—just enough that she felt the warmth of his skin.
She glanced at him.
"They don't know you," he said.
"And do you?" she asked.
"Not yet."
It wasn't defensive. It wasn't cruel.
It was honest.
Sofia took a breath. The sun felt too warm on her shoulders, but his presence beside her steadied her somehow.
At one point, he passed her the bread without being asked. She poured him water. He quietly shifted his chair so she wouldn't be in direct sunlight. They didn't speak of it. But those gestures built something invisible—a bridge they hadn't been able to cross before.
The brunch dragged on. At times, Sofia felt herself withdrawing. But then Alessandro would comment softly about the ridiculousness of his cousin's new mustache, or whisper something sarcastic about the wine, and she'd feel herself smile.
An hour passed. Then two.
By the time they were expected to take the final toast, Sofia's legs no longer trembled.
Alessandro stood with her as his aunt raised her glass.
"To family," she said, smiling directly at Sofia.
"To survival," Alessandro said under his breath.
Sofia looked at him, surprised.
And laughed.
It was small, but real. He turned his face slightly toward hers, as if hearing it gave him something he didn't realize he'd needed.
And when they sat down again, he didn't let the space widen between them.
He stayed close.
---
Later, after the guests had left and the garden was quiet again, Alessandro turned to her. "Walk with me."
It wasn't a demand. It was barely even a request.
Still, she rose.
They walked in silence past rose bushes and ancient olive trees. The gravel path crunched beneath their steps. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas buzzed softly.
"Do you hate it here?" he asked, surprising her.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I hate feeling invisible. I hate feeling watched. I hate pretending."
"But you don't hate me?"
The question landed heavily between them.
She hesitated. "I don't know you well enough to hate you."
He gave a small, dry laugh. "Fair."
They reached a stone bench under an archway of ivy and sat down. The sun dappled the path in gold.
Alessandro leaned back. "When I was fourteen, I told my grandfather I wanted to be a painter."
Sofia's head turned sharply. "You?"
"I liked landscapes. Mountains. I liked how quiet they were. He took my sketchbook and burned it."
Her heart ached unexpectedly.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago."
She wanted to tell him it did matter. That the child in him hadn't deserved that. That maybe he'd never stopped drawing in his head.
But she just asked, "Do you miss it?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Sometimes."
They sat quietly. Wind brushed through the leaves. Her dress fluttered around her knees.
"I sketch," she said.
He glanced at her.
"Not for anyone. Just… to remember how I feel. When I forget, I draw it. I think it's the only way I've survived this far."
He nodded, solemn.
Their eyes met.
And neither of them looked away.
Something shifted again. Something quieter this time. Not a storm. A tide.
When they stood to leave, he didn't touch her hand.
But she felt him beside her the entire way back.