CHAPTER 7
1395 Words
THE PRICE OF DISOBEDIENCE
Serafina learned the cost of resistance on a Tuesday afternoon, under a sky so blue it felt obscene.
The mansion was alive with preparation. Voices echoed through the corridors, heels clicked against marble, trays of crystal glasses moved from room to room like offerings. Alessandro was hosting a gathering—one of his smaller affairs, meant to impress rather than intimidate. Diplomacy disguised as hospitality.
Serafina had already dressed, already assumed her role. Pale silk, long sleeves, hair pinned carefully away from her face. She moved through the rooms quietly, her presence ornamental, her silence expected.
That was when she saw Caterina.
Caterina was not part of the inner circle. She was married to one of Alessandro’s lieutenants—a man who smiled too often and laughed too loudly. Serafina had met her only a handful of times, but she remembered her vividly because Caterina had spoken freely. Too freely.
She was older than Serafina by a few years, confident in a way that bordered on reckless. She asked questions at dinners. She laughed openly. She once disagreed with her husband in front of others—and did not apologize.
Serafina had admired her quietly, the way one might admire a bird perched too close to an open window.
Now Caterina stood in the hallway near the study, flanked by two guards.
Her dress was torn at the shoulder. Her hair hung loose, strands clinging to her face as if she’d been running—or dragged. There was a mark on her cheek, red and swollen, already beginning to darken.
She was not crying.
That was what struck Serafina first.
Caterina’s chin was lifted, her spine straight despite the way her hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes burned with something sharp and dangerous—defiance, unextinguished even now.
Serafina stopped short.
The guards did not acknowledge her, but Caterina did. Their eyes met for a brief, electric moment, and in that instant, Serafina understood that this was not meant to be hidden.
This was meant to be seen.
“Madam,” one of the guards said stiffly, finally noticing her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Serafina nodded, but she did not move.
From inside the study came Alessandro’s voice—low, calm, irritated.
“Bring her in.”
The words settled like lead in Serafina’s stomach.
Caterina was escorted forward. As she passed, her shoulder brushed Serafina’s arm. The contact was accidental, fleeting—but it carried weight. A silent exchange, heavy with meaning.
Don’t forget this, Caterina’s eyes seemed to say.
Serafina did not follow them into the study.
She didn’t need to.
The door closed, but the mansion was never truly soundproof—not where it mattered.
At first, there was only Alessandro’s voice. Smooth. Controlled. Reasonable.
“You embarrassed him,” he said. “You embarrassed me.”
Caterina replied, her voice tight but steady. “I spoke the truth.”
There was a pause.
“The truth,” Alessandro repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Is not yours to speak.”
Serafina pressed her back against the wall, her breath shallow. She wanted to leave, to retreat into the safety of ignorance—but her feet would not move.
Inside the study, Alessandro continued, “Women like you mistake tolerance for weakness.”
Caterina said something then—Serafina couldn’t hear the words clearly, but she heard the tone. It was sharp. Unyielding.
Defiant.
The sound that followed was not loud.
It was precise.
A slap, delivered with control rather than rage.
Serafina flinched anyway, her nails digging into her palms.
Silence stretched.
Then Caterina spoke again, her voice shaking now. “You don’t own me.”
That was the moment.
Serafina felt it even before it happened—a shift in the air, a tightening, as though the house itself held its breath.
Alessandro laughed.
It was a soft sound, almost indulgent. “Everyone belongs to someone,” he said. “You simply forgot who that was.”
What followed was quieter than Serafina expected.
No shouting. No chaos. Just the sound of movement, of something being knocked over, of breath forced from lungs. A muffled cry that cut off too quickly.
Serafina closed her eyes.
She had learned by now not to imagine too vividly. Imagination made things unbearable. But fragments slipped through anyway—Caterina’s torn dress, her unbowed chin, the fire in her eyes.
The study door opened.
Two men emerged, gripping Caterina by the arms.
Her head hung now, her strength spent. Her face was bruised, blood at the corner of her mouth. One shoe was missing.
She did not look at Serafina as they passed.
That hurt more than if she had.
Alessandro followed, adjusting his cuffs as though he’d merely finished a meeting. His expression was composed, his posture immaculate.
“Take her home,” he instructed calmly. “She’ll remember this conversation.”
The men nodded and dragged Caterina away.
Serafina stood frozen, the image seared into her mind.
Alessandro turned to her then.
“Ah,” he said mildly. “You saw.”
It was not an accusation. It was a statement.
“Yes,” Serafina whispered.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then he smiled—not unkindly, but not warmly either.
“This is why silence matters,” he said. “Resistance only creates unnecessary pain.”
He reached out and straightened the collar of her dress with gentle fingers. The contrast made her stomach twist.
“You understand that, don’t you?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes.”
“Good.” He patted her cheek once, possessive and dismissive. “Learn from her mistake.”
That evening, the gathering went on as planned.
Guests arrived, laughter filled the rooms, glasses clinked. Music drifted through the mansion, light and elegant. Serafina moved among them like a ghost, her smile fixed, her mind elsewhere.
She wondered where Caterina was.
She wondered how many women had stood where she stood now—watching, learning, surviving.
During dinner, she caught snippets of conversation.
“Such a shame,” someone murmured.
“She always was difficult.”
“Some women don’t know when to stop pushing.”
No one expressed surprise.
No one expressed outrage.
The lesson was clear: Caterina had not been punished for being disobedient. She had been punished for being visible.
Later that night, Serafina sat alone in her room, staring at her reflection.
She tried to imagine herself speaking the truth aloud. Tried to imagine defiance burning in her chest, spilling from her mouth despite the consequences.
The image felt foreign. Unreal.
Fear had already reshaped her.
She understood now that obedience was not just expected—it was enforced collectively. Through example. Through spectacle. Through quiet reminders of what happened to women who believed themselves untouchable.
Caterina had believed that.
Serafina pressed her fingers to her wrist, feeling the faint ache beneath the skin. Bruises healed. Pride did not.
She thought of Luca then, unbidden.
He had been present at the gathering, of course. He always was. She had seen him standing near the wall when Caterina was dragged away, his expression unreadable, his posture relaxed.
But his eyes—
His eyes had followed Caterina, not Alessandro.
And for just a moment, Serafina had seen something dark flicker there. Not approval. Not indifference.
Judgment.
It was gone as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by his usual composure. But it lingered in Serafina’s mind, a spark she did not yet understand.
She lay awake long into the night, the mansion quiet around her. Somewhere in the city, Caterina was nursing wounds that would never be discussed, learning—too late—the cost of forgetting her place.
Serafina turned onto her side, curling inward.
She whispered nothing. She promised nothing.
But something inside her hardened.
Not into defiance—not yet.
Into resolve.
She would not resist openly. She would not speak truths that would get her broken. She would not become an example for others to study with pity and distance.
She would survive.
And survival, she now understood, required more than silence.
It required watching.
Remembering.
And learning exactly how much obedience was enough to keep her alive—until the day the balance shifted, and silence was no longer the only language left to her.
- Writer
