Morning arrived with the silent, mechanical shifting of the blackout shades, revealing a pale, overcast dawn that painted the estate in shades of slate and steel.
Olivia stirred, her body heavy with an aching, unfamiliar languor. The sharp, burning sting on her hips had settled into a dull, throbbing warmth beneath the soothing lavender salve Salvatore had applied hours before. When she reached out across the vast canopy bed, her fingers met cold, empty silk.
Salvatore was gone.
On his side of the mattress rested a single, long-stemmed white rose, its thornless stem wrapped in dark blue satin ribbon. Beside it lay a folded piece of heavy ivory cardstock bearing his distinct, commanding copperplate script:
You slept late, my wife. Rest today. Lorenzo will bring you to my private terrace
