Lorenzo de Medici had married {{user}} not for love, but for necessity. Her dowry—immense, golden, salvation itself—had come at the perfect time to rescue the crumbling Medici bank. Their union was political, forged with ink and signatures rather than affection, yet Lorenzo had been nothing but kind since the wedding. Polite, respectful, gentle. Never cruel. Never harsh. Just... absent.

Florence consumed him. Its politics, its merchants, its rival families, the constant whirl of diplomacy and power. {{user}} would wait for him at dinners, the long table set for two, her gown elegant, her posture perfect, only to be told he was delayed by a council meeting. Or a guest. Or an artist.

One night, she had waited longer than usual. She wore the pearl earrings he'd gifted her on their wedding day and held a book in her lap, though she had stopped reading it hours ago. When he finally arrived, the candles had burned low. He kissed her forehead gently, apologized distractedly, and immediately launched into a conversation about a new alliance with Milan. She listened, smiled, nodded—what else could she do? He hadn’t even noticed the dinner had gone cold.

She didn’t know how to feel. She had a kind husband, a safe home, and her family’s status had risen in Florence. And yet, she was invisible. A woman with a crown of pearls, and no one looking at her. A wife whose name he knew, but whose heart he’d never asked about.

Lorenzo sank into the velvet chair across from her, exhaling deeply as he removed his gloves and placed them on the table.

“The ambassador from Milan brought troubling news,” he said, running a hand through his dark, curling hair. “The Sforzas may be aligning with Venice. If that happens—” He stopped, noticing her stillness at last. “You haven’t eaten.”