Chapter 3: Shadow Behind Smiles .
1213 Words
The envelopes came regularly after that.
Always the same cream color, always tucked neatly beneath her pillow, or left on the table outside her door. Never a note. Never a signature.
And never the same woman.
Each video was only a few seconds long — grainy but clear. Matteo. Their bed. Someone new. A laugh, a gasp, a kiss pressed into skin that wasn’t hers.
The worst part wasn’t the betrayal.
It was the pattern.
Because they only ever came after she gave herself to him.
Each time she let her walls down, each time she gave in to the tension that simmered between them, to the pull she couldn’t explain — the next morning, another envelope would be waiting.
It was as if someone had been watching. Waiting. Punishing her.
Elena stopped crying after the fourth.
Something inside her snapped. Not loud like glass shattering — soft, like silk tearing under pressure. No one noticed. No one ever did.
The mansion still moved around her like a machine. Caterina brought her schedule. The guards nodded in silence. The halls echoed with emptiness.
And Matteo? He remained as distant and composed as ever. He never looked guilty. Never asked if she was okay. Never touched her again — unless it was for the camera.
She began skipping meals. Ignoring the stylists. Some days, she didn’t speak at all.
Until one rainy afternoon, when she wandered into the wrong hallway — and met her first friend.
---
The kitchen was alive with noise and heat, unlike the rest of the house. Pans clanged, garlic sizzled, and people moved like dancers — spinning, chopping, stirring in rhythm.
She hesitated at the entrance, barefoot, hair unbrushed, eyes hollow from another sleepless night. She didn’t know why she’d come. She just wanted… noise. Something that didn’t hurt.
“Ah! Look who wandered out of the crypt!”
A warm, accented voice pulled her in. A woman emerged from behind a tray of steaming bread, flour smudged on her apron and cheek.
She had thick, dark curls tucked under a chef’s cap, a wide smile, and eyes that sparkled with mischief and sharp intelligence.
“Elena, right?” she asked, drying her hands on a towel. “I’m Bianca. Kitchen queen. Pasta magician. Professional eater of secrets.”
Elena blinked. “You… know my name?”
“Please. You think we don’t gossip in here? You’re the Mrs. Orazio.” Bianca gave a dramatic bow, then winked. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re not invisible, darling. Not in this house. Just very… mysterious.”
Elena didn’t smile, but she stepped inside. The kitchen smelled like rosemary and bread. It reminded her of home. The real one — before her mother got sick. Before all of this.
Bianca pulled out a stool and set a plate of soft, steaming bread in front of her.
“Eat. You look like you’ve been feeding your sorrow instead of yourself.”
“I’m not hungry,” Elena murmured.
“You don’t have to be.” Bianca poured her a cup of something warm and sweet. “Just chew.”
For the first time in days, Elena did. The bread was soft, fragrant — and it made her eyes burn. Her chest ached with the effort not to cry.
Bianca watched her carefully, then leaned against the counter. “Let me guess. You’re angry. Sad. You want to disappear. Or commit murder. Or maybe all three.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Elena whispered.
“Then start with soup. And maybe a small fire.”
Elena let out a faint laugh. It was weak, but real. And Bianca grinned.
“That’s better. You’re human. That’s allowed here. Even in this cursed palace.”
They didn’t speak about Matteo. They didn’t speak about the videos. But Bianca’s presence, her irreverent warmth, settled something inside Elena that had been spinning for too long.
She stayed in the kitchen that afternoon — peeling potatoes, sipping broth, listening to Bianca’s stories about unruly sous-chefs and food fights in the walk-in fridge. For a few hours, she was no one’s wife. Just a girl, in a kitchen, with a woman who made her laugh.
---
Later that evening, as she was leaving, someone stepped into the hallway.
Tall. Sharp-jawed. Sleeves rolled. A cigarette balanced between his fingers.
Elena froze.
The man gave her a slow once-over, then tipped an imaginary hat. “Mrs. Orazio,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been hiding.”
She recognized him from the wedding. From a dozen events where he stood quietly at Leonardo’s side, never speaking unless spoken to.
“Marco,” he said, offering a hand. “Second-in-command. Sometimes babysitter. Sometimes executioner. Depends on the mood.”
Elena hesitated, then shook his hand briefly. “I didn’t realize anyone noticed.”
“Oh, we notice everything,” he said, his voice smooth as red wine. “This house? It’s a hive. Cameras in corners, whispers in the walls. You learn to hear things without being told.”
She stepped back. “That’s a strange way to introduce yourself.”
Marco chuckled. “You’ll learn. Everyone in this house wears masks — even in the dark.” He looked past her, toward the kitchen. “I see you’ve met our beloved Bianca. Careful with her. That woman’s heart is a wildfire.”
“So is her soup,” Elena said, before she could stop herself.
Marco blinked in amusement. “Ah. She made you laugh. That’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because once you start laughing again, you start wanting more than silence.” He took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. “And wanting, in this house, is a dangerous thing.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked down the hallway, smoke trailing behind him.
Elena watched him go, heart suddenly heavier.
---
That night, for the first time in a while, she felt something close to human.
She brushed her hair. Put on a sweater instead of her usual robe. Sat by the fireplace with a book she hadn’t touched in weeks.
Bianca had given her a sense of warmth. Marco — a warning she couldn’t quite decipher. But it was still better than the empty numbness that had ruled her days.
For a flicker of a moment, she let herself hope that maybe — just maybe — things could shift.
That maybe Leonardo had grown tired of punishing her. That maybe the last kiss meant something. That maybe the worst was over.
But when she returned to her room that night, she stopped cold.
There it was.
Another envelope.
Cream-colored. Clean. Waiting.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up.
Another flash drive.
Her heartbeat rang in her ears.
She sat down slowly. Slid it into the laptop. Pressed play.
Same bed. Same man.
Different woman.
Again.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even blink.
She just sat in the soft glow of the fire, watching her own heart get dragged through the sheets.
And this time, she wasn’t just angry.
She was starting to understand the rules of the game.
And how much blood it would take to change them.
- Writer
