CHAPTER 6
1557 Words
BRUISE WITHOUT NAMES
No one ever asked Serafina how she got hurt.
That, she learned, was the rule.
In the world she now lived in, questions were dangerous things. Curiosity implied doubt, and doubt suggested disloyalty. So people learned to see without seeing, to notice without acknowledging. Bruises became part of the background—like the marble floors or the heavy drapes—present, unquestioned, unnamed.
The first time she realized this, it was over breakfast.
She sat at the long dining table, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, painting everything gold and gentle. The setting was immaculate: white linen, polished silverware, porcelain untouched by time. A maid poured coffee into Alessandro’s cup, then hesitated before turning to Serafina.
Her wrist hurt.
It was a dull ache, the kind that lingered long after the moment had passed, blooming slowly beneath the skin. She had wrapped it carefully that morning, choosing a long-sleeved dress despite the heat. Still, when she reached for her cup, the sleeve shifted.
Purple and blue, fading into yellow at the edges.
The maid’s eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see.
Then she looked away.
“I’ll bring fresh bread,” the woman said softly, already retreating.
Serafina sat very still, her fingers curling instinctively inward, hiding what had already been seen. Alessandro noticed nothing. Or perhaps he noticed everything and simply did not care.
He read the paper, sipped his coffee, discussed shipments and numbers as though the morning were no different from any other. His voice was calm, measured, confident.
The bruise throbbed in time with her pulse.
Later that day, one of the women from the inner circle complimented her dress.
“It suits you,” she said, eyes skimming briefly over Serafina’s arm. “You look… rested.”
Rested.
Serafina smiled, because she understood what was being offered: not kindness, not concern, but permission to pretend.
Violence in Alessandro’s world was never loud for long.
It did not announce itself with screams or broken furniture. It was controlled, deliberate, calculated to leave marks only where they could be hidden—or dismissed. Alessandro was a man who valued appearances. Chaos was for enemies, not for his household.
He never struck her in anger.
Anger, he believed, was sloppy.
Instead, his actions were corrective. Instructional. A means of reinforcing boundaries that, in his mind, already existed. Each bruise carried a lesson, though none were ever spoken aloud.
You spoke when spoken to.
You did not question.
You did not embarrass him.
You did not forget who you belonged to.
The first time it happened, she had cried.
She hadn’t meant to. Tears rose on instinct, unbidden, a betrayal of weakness she had not yet learned to control. Alessandro watched her with faint irritation, as though disappointed.
“Don’t,” he said. “This isn’t cruelty. It’s order.”
Order.
The word echoed long after he left the room.
After that, she learned to be quieter.
Pain became something internal, something to be swallowed before it reached her face. She practiced stillness, practiced breathing evenly even when her body screamed otherwise. She learned which injuries healed quickly and which lingered. Which fabrics concealed best. Which angles of light revealed too much.
She memorized mirrors.
In the bathroom, she examined herself with clinical detachment, cataloguing marks as though they belonged to someone else. She learned how to apply makeup not to enhance beauty, but to erase evidence. Concealer over shadows. Powder over discoloration. A practiced hand hiding truths no one wanted named.
The mansion helped.
Its beauty was complicit.
Wide corridors meant distance—no one close enough to notice the wince when she moved too quickly. High ceilings swallowed sound. Thick carpets muffled footsteps, softened falls. Even the walls seemed designed to keep secrets, heavy and soundproof, ensuring that nothing escaped unless permitted.
When guests came, Serafina played her role flawlessly.
She smiled. She laughed softly at the right moments. She wore gowns that covered her skin strategically, jewelry that distracted the eye. She sat beside Alessandro, her posture perfect, her hands folded elegantly in her lap.
If she moved stiffly, it was because the dresses were restrictive.
If she flinched at sudden movements, it was because she was shy.
If her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, it was because she was young.
Youth explained everything.
Once, during a charity gala, a woman leaned close and murmured, “You look pale, dear. Are you feeling well?”
Serafina nodded. “Just tired.”
The woman smiled knowingly. “Marriage takes adjustment.”
That was the language they used—adjustment. As though pain were merely a phase, something to be endured quietly until it no longer mattered.
No one ever named what they saw.
Even the doctors did not ask questions.
Alessandro had his own physicians—discreet men who understood the importance of silence. When Serafina needed treatment, they addressed Alessandro, not her. They examined injuries without comment, prescribing rest or medication with professional detachment.
“She bruises easily,” Alessandro once remarked casually.
The doctor nodded. “Some women do.”
That was the end of it.
Serafina realized then that truth was not something people lacked—it was something they actively avoided. Naming violence would require action, and action was inconvenient. Silence, on the other hand, kept the machine running smoothly.
So she learned to live within it.
She learned to anticipate Alessandro’s moods, to sense tension before it escalated. She learned when to speak and when to disappear. She learned how to make herself agreeable, invisible, unremarkable.
Survival became an art form.
The bruises became quieter too.
Smaller. More precise. Alessandro refined his methods as she refined her obedience. It was a twisted dance—each step calibrated, each misstep punished just enough to remind her of the rules without causing disruption.
Sometimes, he didn’t touch her at all.
Sometimes, his voice was enough.
A look. A pause. A hand placed too firmly on her shoulder. A reminder delivered with chilling calm.
“Careful,” he would say softly. “You don’t want to disappoint me.”
Disappointment, she learned, was worse than anger.
At least anger burned hot and fast. Disappointment lingered, cold and corrective.
Serafina stopped counting bruises.
Numbers made them feel real, and reality was dangerous. Instead, she focused on healing—on the way skin returned to its natural color, on the relief that came with time. She learned patience, endurance, and the quiet strength required to exist without acknowledgment.
She also learned that there were witnesses.
Not participants. Not saviors.
Witnesses.
The guards saw her limp down the hall and looked straight ahead. The staff noticed when she stopped attending meals for days and said nothing. The women noticed changes in her demeanor—her shrinking presence, her guarded eyes—and adjusted their behavior accordingly.
No one asked why.
Except once.
It happened late one evening, after a meeting that had gone poorly. Alessandro’s temper had been tight all night, coiled beneath his calm exterior. Serafina retreated to the balcony afterward, needing air, needing distance.
She did not hear Luca approach.
“Madam,” he said quietly.
She startled, instinctively stepping back, her hand catching on the railing. Pain shot up her arm, sharp and immediate. She gasped before she could stop herself.
Luca’s gaze dropped—not lingering, not intrusive, but precise. He saw the way she favored one side, the way her breath hitched before settling.
“You should have that looked at,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Serafina froze.
No one had ever acknowledged pain so plainly. No euphemisms. No assumptions. No performance.
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically.
Luca held her gaze for a moment longer than was polite. Longer than was safe. There was something unsettling in his stillness, in the way he did not rush to fill the silence.
“Very well,” he said finally. “If you need anything, let the staff know.”
He turned to leave.
As he did, Serafina realized something that left her shaken long after he was gone.
He hadn’t asked how it happened.
He already knew.
That night, alone in her room, Serafina stared at the ceiling and tried to name what she felt.
It wasn’t hope. Hope was too fragile, too dangerous.
It wasn’t relief. Nothing had changed.
It wasn’t fear—she had lived with fear too long for it to surprise her.
It was something sharper.
Awareness.
Someone saw the bruises and did not look away.
Someone understood the language of unspoken violence and chose not to disguise it with kindness or excuses. Someone acknowledged the truth without demanding she speak it aloud.
The realization frightened her more than silence ever had.
Because silence kept her alive.
And naming things—even silently, even privately—had the power to set worlds on fire.
So Serafina did what she had learned to do best.
She swallowed the moment.
She buried the thought.
She carried her bruises without names.
And the mansion, with all its beauty and quiet, kept her secrets just as faithfully as it kept Alessandro’s power—holding everything in place, polished and pristine, while beneath the surface, something fragile waited for the day silence would no longer be enough.
- Writer
