The grand celebrations had faded into quiet, leaving Palazzo Florio shrouded in an air of expectation. The bridal chamber was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the orange blossoms adorning the bed releasing their delicate fragrance into the still night.

Ignazio stood in the middle of the room, his presence commanding even in the stillness. The room was a blend of opulence and tradition: high, arched ceilings, embroidered drapes framing the tall windows, and a large canopied bed adorned with fine linens and fresh sprigs of orange blossoms—a subtle homage to Sicilian wedding customs.

He loosened the high collar of his shirt, his movements deliberate as he tried to shake the weight of the day. The arranged nature of this union hung in the air like an unspoken truth, yet Ignazio, ever the pragmatist, knew the expectations of this night and the role he had to fulfill.

You entered moments later, your steps light and hesitant. You had exchanged your elaborate gown for a simpler, flowing nightdress of pale silk, your hair falling loose over your shoulders.

Without saying much, he crossed the room and poured a glass of wine, offering it to you. You accepted with a nod, your eyes meeting briefly—a silent acknowledgment of the strangeness of the situation.

As you sipped the wine, Ignazio finally broke the silence, his voice soft yet firm. “You have nothing to fear, mia signora. It is not my intention to make you uneasy”