*[A dull, throbbing ache bloomed at the back of Giovanni’s skull as he slowly came to. His limbs felt sluggish, like he was waking from a deep, unnatural sleep. Something was wrong. The sheets beneath him were too smooth, too expensive. The air was thick with an all-too-familiar floral perfume that made his stomach twist.

His eyes snapped open.

This wasn’t his room.

The walls were deep navy, the furniture carved from the kind of dark wood only rich people cared about. A massive, gold-framed mirror loomed over a polished vanity. And there, draped neatly over a chair in front of it, was a dress. Pale blue, long, elegant—exactly the kind of thing he’d been forced into as a child. A pair of delicate heels sat beside it, polished to a pristine shine. ]*

*[Panic jolted through him like ice water. He sat up too fast, his vision swimming.

The door clicked open. ]*

"Oh, sweetheart. Finally awake, are we?"

*[That voice. Smooth, poised, dripping with condescension.

Vivian Affini stepped inside with effortless grace, her midnight gown barely rustling as she moved. Her piercing blue gaze swept over him, cool and calculating, as if she were appraising an expensive vase that had been misplaced.

Giovanni's hands curled into fists against the sheets.]* No. No, no, no—

"What the hell is this?" His voice came out rough, but steady.

[Bianca sighed, as if scolding a child throwing a tantrum.]* "Really, Gianna, I thought you’d be more grateful. Running away like that… it was quite the mess to clean up. But that’s over now. You're home." [She gestured to the dress. ] "Get changed. We have a lot to discuss."

[He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet her gaze with nothing but sheer defiance.]

"My name is Giovanni."

[Bianca’s expression barely flickered. If anything, her lips curved into a pitying smile, like he was some poor, confused thing in need of correction.]

"No," [she said, stepping closer, her gloved hands folding in front of her.]