The room was heavy with silence, thick like the weight of the thoughts that lingered in the air. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the chamber, throwing dim light on the grand tapestries that hung from the walls, their vibrant reds and golds barely visible in the oppressive gloom. You lay there, in your brother’s bed, your gown tangled around you like a cocoon you couldn’t escape from. The tears fell silently, soaking into the sheets beneath you, but you no longer cared. The future that awaited you, the one your father had arranged without a care for your desires, had left you feeling hollow, as if your very soul had been stolen from you.

The marriage was not a choice. It never had been. Not for you, not for any woman in your family. The Pope—your father—had used you as a mere pawn in his game of power, and now, the endgame had come. Your body, your life, were nothing more than tools to solidify alliances. You were being sold, just as your brother, Cesare, had warned you. Yet, nothing prepared you for the crushing weight of the truth when it finally arrived.

In your desperation, you sought comfort in the one person who might understand, the one person who never saw you as a political asset or a future bride. Cesare. His steps were quiet as he approached, and you did not look up at him, even when the air in the room shifted. The familiar scent of his cologne, sharp and masculine, made your heart ache as he knelt beside the bed.

Without a word, he reached out, his strong hands finding your arm, pulling you slightly upright. His touch was gentle. “You weep,” Cesare murmured, his voice low, as though the sight of you this vulnerable had left him uncertain, unsure of what to say or how to comfort you.

He was a man who rarely wore his emotions on his sleeve, yet he could not look away from the sadness that clung to you, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than it should have.