DELUCA

TWO

Eleanor followed Giuseppe through the sprawling halls of his family estate, feeling like a trespasser in someone else's fairy tale.

The house loomed with grandeur and a chill that was more psychological than physical.

It had the weight of history in every creak and whisper, as if the very walls could tell stories of secrets never meant to leave them.

The ornate cream wallpaper rose to impossibly high ceilings, where an elaborate chandelier dangled precariously.

But it wasn't a chandelier in the traditional sense; it was more of a statement—a dangerous, glittering sculpture that threatened to collapse under its own magnificence.

Eleanor tried to place a price on every extravagant detail, knowing that the sum of it all was well beyond what she could ever imagine owning.

She had always known Giuseppe was wealthy, but seeing it—being inside it—was a different experience entirely.

His casual stories of worldly adventures made more sense now. He spoke of cities she could barely pronounce, places she'd only ever seen in passing magazine articles or on television. Yet here she was, walking beside him, her body tense with each step.

When Giuseppe had first proposed the idea of an arranged marriage, Eleanor was stunned. It wasn't that he was unattractive, far from it.

But the exchange of marriage for financial security had felt... wrong, too transactional. Wasn't this one step away from selling herself? The thought of prostitution had crossed her mind more than once.

"Are you alright?" Giuseppe's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. His smile was soft, but there was concern in his eyes.

"This house has been in my family since the fifties," he explained, his voice echoing as they began to ascend the grand staircase, leaving the clatter of the parlor behind them. "It's suffocatingly big when it's just me."

"It's beautiful," Eleanor said. It wasn't a lie—the house was stunning, like something from a dream. But even fairy tales have their dark moments.

She could hear the waves crashing against the cliffside outside, the sound distant but constant, like a reminder of how far she was from the life she once knew.

The stone walls of the hallways were adorned with art pieces—statues, paintings, sculptures—each one more expensive than the last.

The narrow corridor gave way to arched windows, revealing a cobblestone driveway lit by small lamps, the house's exterior now as visible as the looming night.

"Francesco collects," Giuseppe said, gesturing vaguely toward the statues as they passed. He had told her this before—he was prone to repeating himself.

It was an endearing quality, one that made him feel more human despite his intimidating wealth.

"They look... expensive," Eleanor muttered, unable to hide her discomfort. There was something oppressive about the wealth, something that made her feel small and out of place.

Giuseppe laughed softly, leading her further down the hall. "You'll get used to it. This is just the guest wing. When the rest of the family arrives, it'll feel like a small city in here."

They reached a wooden spiral staircase tucked behind an archway. Giuseppe carried her bags as they climbed, the narrowness of the space in stark contrast to the sprawling halls they had just left.

"This is your room. The master suite," Giuseppe announced as they reached the landing. It was a loft with a fireplace, its soft, warm glow reflecting off cream-colored chairs that looked almost too comfortable.

Beyond French doors, Eleanor glimpsed a massive bedroom, with a bed so large it seemed to swallow the room.

Eleanor stood at the threshold, taking in the sheer beauty of the space. The bed, the oak beams, the sheer curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows—it was all perfect. But she felt a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest, unsure if this would ever feel like hers.

"You can relax. I know you're tired." Giuseppe's tone was rushed, his eyes darting toward the door. "I've got to go deal with Francesco. You're alright here?"

Eleanor nodded, though the idea of being left alone in this strange place didn't exactly bring her comfort. "Yeah. Thanks."

Giuseppe hesitated at the door, his hand lingering on the handle. "Eleanor... thank you. For trusting me."

For a moment, his sincerity cut through the tension in her chest, and she smiled. "Of course, Giuseppe."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Eleanor exhaled deeply, the reality of her situation crashing down around her.

She had traded her life for this—a castle by the sea, an arrangement with a man who was almost a stranger. The deal had felt transactional from the start, but standing here now, she wondered what it really meant.

What would his family think? Would they see her as some opportunistic outsider? An intruder into their old-world traditions? The questions spun in her head like a whirlpool, each one more dizzying than the last.

She walked to the window and pulled the curtains aside, staring at the black, moonlit sea. A queen's house, in a queen's bed, and yet she felt anything but regal.

After a long, hot shower that had taken her embarrassingly long to figure out, Eleanor dried off and dressed in pajamas.

The chill in the room was unmistakable, so she layered on her warmest clothes. But as she went to unpack her bag, something caught her eye—a toothbrush on the sink, along with men's toiletries neatly arranged on the bathroom counter.

Her blood ran cold.

"This is Francesco's room," she realized, her voice a low, incredulous whisper. She had been placed in the very room of the man she was meant to marry. Did Giuseppe even tell Francesco?

Drying off quickly, she climbed into bed, her mind buzzing with new worries.

Would Francesco walk in and find her there? Did he even know she was staying in his room? The thought made her skin prickle with unease.

Eleanor tried to sleep, but every sound seemed amplified in the silence. She stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, her mind racing.

Eventually, she gave up, slipping out of bed and tiptoeing to the door. She needed a drink—something to calm her nerves.

The kitchen was dark when she arrived, but the faint glow from the refrigerator was enough to guide her. After a brief search, she found a bottle of wine in the cooler. "Mosetto Toscana," she murmured, unsure if she was pronouncing it right.

It didn't matter.

Wine was wine, and tonight, she needed it.

As she poured herself a glass and turned back to explore the house, she froze.

A shadow shifted in the parlor.

Francesco stepped into the moonlight, his figure tall and imposing, his features sharp in the soft glow. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice deep and rough with sleep.

Eleanor's heart pounded. "No, I... I thought everyone was asleep."

"I was." He gestured to the library, where a chair and papers were strewn about. "I fell asleep working." His eyes swept over her, and for a moment, Eleanor felt completely exposed.

She laughed nervously. "I noticed Giuseppe put me in your room. I'm sorry. I'll move in the morning."

Francesco waved her off, pouring himself a glass of wine. "It's fine. He does that sometimes, forgets to mention important details."

As they stood there, glasses in hand, the tension in the room slowly ebbed away. Francesco wasn't at all what she had expected.

He wasn't the cold, distant figure she had imagined. There was something about him, something she couldn't quite place, that drew her in.

And as the night wore on, their conversation flowed as naturally as the wine. They spoke of their arrangement, of the family's expectations, of how they would manage the charade. Francesco, with his disarming charm, made it all seem so simple, so easy.

But even as Eleanor raised her glass in a toast to their "whirlwind romance," she knew that nothing about this would be easy.