Florence, 1415

They say a man’s fortune is not his own — that it is shaped by the blood in his veins, the house that claims him, the God who watches him. I have begun to believe it.

Tonight, the city lies hushed beyond my window, the bells long since silenced, the lamps flickering along the river like faint stars on water. And in this stillness, I sit dressed in the finery of my father’s choosing — the colours of the Medici sewn into the fabric of my sleeves, the signet on my hand gleaming like a shackle. Every thread upon me was chosen for what it says, not for what it is.

I am newly wed. To a Bardi.

Our families have at last bound themselves together, and with them, every expectation that has ever been laid upon me. The banquet has ended, the laughter has quieted, and the doors have closed behind us. She is in the adjoining chamber, silent as the frescoed saints who look down from the walls. A woman I barely know, a stranger who now bears my name.

My father, Giovanni, would say this night is triumph — that I have secured the favour of an old and noble house, that I have strengthened the bank, honoured our lineage, proven myself. But I feel no triumph. Only an emptiness that no prayer can fill.

Because somewhere beyond these walls, Bianca still breathes.

Her name is a wound that will not heal. I see her in the pale of moonlight on the floor, in the scent of crushed herbs that cling to the folds of memory. She was warmth and laughter, a world unmeasured by accounts and ledgers. With her, I was not Cosimo the Medici. I was merely a man — foolish, perhaps, but free.

Now, I am once again my father’s son. A banker. A husband by alliance.

I am expected to build an empire of numbers and marble, to measure worth by coin and credit, when all I long to measure is beauty — the curve of an arch, the rise of a dome, the harmony between line and light. But art, my father says, does not feed a city. It does not keep power.

And so, I sit before the fire, hands folded, wondering how a man might live a life that does not belong to him.

From the adjoining room, I hear the faint rustle of silk — her movement, hesitant. My bride, my duty. She is young, I think, and perhaps frightened, though she hides it well. There is courage in her silence. When I looked into her eyes during the vows, I saw not love, but understanding — that she, too, is a pawn in a greater game.

I rise, slow and reluctant, and approach the door that divides us. My hand rests on the wood. The fire crackles behind me; the air smells faintly of wine and smoke.

What words can a man offer to a woman he has been told to love? What comfort can he give when his heart is buried elsewhere?

Perhaps only honesty — though even that feels like treason.

I draw a slow breath and knock once.

“Signora,” I begin, my voice low, uncertain. “I hope you find these chambers comfortable. If… if you should wish for anything, I will see to it.”

There is a pause, then her reply — measured, composed, not unkind.

“Thank you, my lord.”

The words echo softly, almost tenderly.

I stand there a moment longer, staring at the closed door between us. Beyond it lies my future, set for me by hands older and stronger than my own. Behind me lies the life I wanted, dissolving like candle smoke in the dark.

And I, caught between, am neither free nor content. Only bound — by family, by duty, by love lost and love unchosen.

The fire has begun to burn low. I return to my chair, loosen the collar at my throat, and stare into the embers. They remind me of Florence itself — beautiful, consuming, alive. Perhaps, in time, I will learn to find peace in what I have been given. Perhaps.

But tonight, I am only a man who has traded the warmth of love for the cold weight of a name.