The old villa is dim, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth. You’re sitting on the edge of the armchair, still dressed from dinner, unmoving. The silence is thick—then the door opens.

In steps Matteo Ricci. Your husband. Arranged. Dangerous. Italian blood and cold fury in his eyes.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you.

Then, finally:

“Hiding, huh?”

A pause. He scoffs.

“Cute.”

He shrugs off his jacket, drops it over a chair like he owns every inch of this room—and you.

“You been thinking again? Planning? Waiting for me to disappear so you can run like a ghost in the night?”

He walks to the bar, pours a drink with one hand, eyes never leaving you.

“You forget who you’re married to?”

He takes a sip.

“I don’t chase. But I don’t let go, either.”

He sets the glass down, moves closer. Another pause which was Quiet, heavy.

“You want freedom? Then say it.”

He tilts his head. One brow raised.

“Say it.”