Chapter 3
1306 Words
Eyes That Never See Away
Morning came delicately in the Palazzo De Luca, although, indeed, the sun had learned to behave.
Isabella woke to pale light sifting through the sheer shades, portraying the room in shades of gold and cream. For a minute, she lay still, muddled by the new ceiling, the new calm. At that point, memory returned with brutal clarity.
She was a De Luca now.
On paper, at least.
She rose gradually, cushioning unshod over the cool marble floor to the window. The patio underneath was lively with cautious movement, cultivators trimming supports with surgical exactness, staff moving in practiced hush. Everything here worked like a well-trained organism.
Efficient. Controlled. Watching.
She dressed carefully in a custom-fitted naval force dress, proficient, composed, armor camouflaged as tasty. As she secured her hair into a ponytail, she caught her reflection and examined it.
You are still you, she told herself.
Do not disregard that.
Breakfast was served instantly at seven.
Alessandro was sitting when she entered the dining room, a tablet in one hand, coffee untouched adjacent to him. He looked up as she drew nearer, his look flicking over her with an incoherent expression.
“Good morning,” she said, taking her seat.
“Morning,” he replied.
No warmth. No hostility.
Just non-partisanship honed to a blade.
At first, they ate in silence, the only sound coming between them being the clink of cutlery. Isabella centered on her plate, denying letting the mindfulness of his nearness, his stillness unsettle her.
“Today will be busy,” Alessandro said at the final. “My mother is facilitating a luncheon.”
Isabella’s fingers stopped mid-motion. “For me?”
“For us,” he adjusted. “Your introduction.”
Her jaw fixed. "I was unaware that I required an introduction."
“In Rome,” he said calmly, “visibility is validation.”
She met his look. “And scrutiny?”
He didn’t deny it. “That too.”
Lucia De Luca made her entrance absolutely on time, her heels clicking delicately against the marble as she cleared into the room. She wore ivory silk and specialist like a moment skin.
“Isabella,” Lucia said, advertising a grin that never came to her eyes. “I believe you rested well.”
“Very well, thank you,” Isabella replied.
“Excellent,” Lucia said. “You’ll need your vitality. Nowadays, it is important.”
To you, Isabella thought.
The lunch get-together was held on the plant underneath a canopy of white material and sprouting wisteria. Rome’s tip-top arrived in clean waves: ladies in creator dresses, men with measured grins and eyes that missed nothing.
Isabella felt their looks immediately.
Assessing. Measuring. Judging.
She stood adjacent to Alessandro as presentations were made, her arm softly circled through his.
His touch was consistent and neutral, but it was established in an unexpected way.
Time after time, he introduced her the same way: “This is my spouse, Isabella De Luca.”
The title felt bizarre in her ears.
Some grins were honest to goodness. Others were sharp.
“And how did you two meet?” "One lady inquired brightly, her curiosity tinged with hunger."
Isabella opened her mouth, but Alessandro talked first.
“Through family,” he said easily. “As most persevering things begin.”
A mumble of endorsement followed.
Isabella grinned respectfully, feeling like a performing artist conveying lines from a script she hadn’t written.
Then she felt it.
A look that waited as well long.
She turned somewhat and found a lady observing her from above the plant, tall, exquisite, with honey-blonde hair and a knowing grin that did not mollify her eyes.
The lady raised her glass in an inconspicuous salute.
Isabella was inclined toward Alessandro. “Who is she?”
His expression scarcely changed, but something in his pose stiffened.
“Elena Rossi,” he said quietly.
Recognition struck.
“I’ve listened to the name,” Isabella said. “Your former.”
“Yes,” he said. “Her.”
Elena drew closer minutes afterward, her grin flawless.
“Alessandro,” she said warmly. “It’s been as well long.”
“Elena,” he answered, respectful but distant.
Her look slid to Isabella. “And this must be the wife.”
Isabella held her ground. “Isabella.”
Elena’s eyes sparkled. “She’s beautiful,” she said to Alessandro. “You continuously had faultless taste.”
The discussion tightened.
“Excuse us,” Alessandro said without further ado, directing Isabella absent with a firm hand.
Once they were out of earshot, Isabella breathed out. “So that’s the past that doesn’t matter.”
His jaw fixed. “She won’t be a problem.”
“That wasn’t convincing,” Isabella replied.
At that moment, he gave her his full attention, and a dull sparkle appeared in his eyes.
“This world flourishes on provocation,” he said. “Don’t let it snare you.”
“And you?” she inquired. “Do you still let it?”
Their eyes locked.
“No,” he said.
The lunch meeting finished without incident, but the pressure was put on Isabella after Isabella got back into the house like a shadow.
Later that evening, she withdrew to the library, longing for isolation. Clean wood and old books filled the space, creating a sort of sanctuary. She ran her fingers along spines filled with history, control, and carefully curated truths.
“You’re hiding.”
She turned to discover Marco De Luca leaning against the entryway, his smile simple, his eyes sharp.
“I incline toward the word escaping,” Isabella replied.
He giggled delicately. “Smart. This house eats the unprepared.”
“You’re Alessandro’s brother,” she said.
“The lesser-known, less-feared one,” Marco said with derisive gravity. “At your service.”
She grinned despite herself.
“I like you,” he proceeded. “You don’t flinch.”
“Should I?” she asked.
“Most do,” he answered. “Especially around my mother.”
Her grin blurred. “Does she ever halt testing people?”
“No,” Marco said. “She fairly changes the rules.”
That evening, Isabella found Alessandro in the think about once more, this time situated behind the work area, coat disposed of, sleeves rolled.
“Elena cornered me,” she said without preamble.
His eyes lifted strongly. “What did she say?”
“That she trusts I make you happy,” Isabella answered dryly. "It appears to be a foreboding message rather than a favor."
He stood gradually, adjusting the work area. “I’ll handle it.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I can handle myself.”
“I know,” he answered discreetly. “That’s not why.”
She examined him. “Then why?”
“Because,” he said, ceasing a few feet absent, “she doesn’t get to debilitate what’s mine.”
The words settled intensely between them.
Isabella’s beat enlivened. “I thought I wasn’t a possession.”
His look was obscured. “You’re not.”
“Then don’t have a conversation like that.”
Silence stretched.
“Fair,” he said at last.
They stood there, near sufficient that she might scent his cologne, see the swooning wrinkle of pressure between his brows.
“This arrangement,” Isabella said delicately, “is as of now more complicated than it ought to be.”
“Yes,” he concurred. “And it’s as if it were fair begun.”
As she turned to take off, she felt his eyes follow her.
Wat
ching.
Always watching.
And to begin with, Isabella pondered, not without a glint of fear, whether she was really arranged for what it implied to be seen in a house that never looked absent.
- Writer
