Later that evening.
The grand dining room of the Fontana mansion, usually a stage for lavish gatherings and carefully orchestrated social performances, felt eerily quiet. Silas and Martina sat opposite each other, the ornate table laden with untouched food, a stark reflection of the unspoken tension between them. Matilda’s unexpected appearance had cast a long shadow over their evening, a chilling reminder of the precariousness of their situation.
The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware as Silas nervously shifted his cutlery. He stole glances at Martina, trying to decipher her emotions, but her face remained an impassive mask, her eyes distant and preoccupied. The Tuscan honeymoon, with its carefully constructed facade of marital bliss, felt like a distan
