Chapter 2. The Morning After

Light burned through her eyelids before she was ready for it.

Margherita groaned and turned away, pressing a hand to her temple. Her skin was warm, her head pounding dully—but not spinning anymore. The fog had lifted, leaving only the taste of stale perfume and a faint metallic dryness in her mouth.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself in a room far too beautiful to belong to any nightmare.

Cream-colored walls. Long windows flooded with sunlight. Marble floors that caught the morning light like mirrors. The air smelled faintly of citrus and polished wood. She was lying in a bed big enough to swallow her whole, tucked under a white duvet smooth as silk.

Her wrists were free.

She stared at them for a long time, as if waiting for the ropes to reappear. Then, slowly, she exhaled.

Her black dress clung to her like a memory of last night’s humiliation. The straps were still uneven, the hem still too short. But her body—thank God—felt untouched.

Relief came in a trembling wave so strong it almost hurt. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat stumble, then race.

Nothing happened.

She sat up slowly, scanning the room. No one. No sound but the hum of distant air-conditioning and the faint rush of traffic far below. The silence felt wrong—too calm, too careful. For a moment, she let herself breathe, then logic crept back in.

If she’d been brought here, someone had a reason.

Margherita swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor kissing her bare feet. Her purse sat neatly on the armchair, as though someone had placed it there deliberately. Next to it, her high-heeled shoes waited—cleaned, aligned, too perfectly positioned for coincidence.

When she checked the purse, everything was inside—her ID, her phone, her keys, even her lipstick. Nothing stolen. Nothing missing.

That frightened her more than anything.

“What the fuck?” she muttered under her breath. “What game is this?”

She crossed the suite, searching for an exit. The door led to a narrow corridor and an elevator that flashed red when she pressed the button—card required.

She cursed softly under her breath. “Shit.” The sound seemed too loud in the sterile quiet.

Her reflection caught her eye in a mirror by the wall. She froze. Her hair was tangled, mascara streaked, lipstick faded to a ghost of red. She looked like a woman who’d made a mistake she didn’t want to admit.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “Just perfect.”

She looked around and noticed the door, facing the bed.

Must be a bathroom.

She pushed it open. The bathroom gleamed—marble counter, gold fixtures, a scent of bergamot soap. She splashed cold water on her face, wiped away the remnants of last night’s paint, and brushed her hair with her fingers until it fell into some semblance of order.

When she stepped back into the bedroom, her dress felt smaller somehow, more indecent under the daylight. She tugged at the hem uselessly, heat prickling her neck.

She pulled open the wardrobe to search for something to cover herself—and froze.

Inside hung a row of tailored men’s suits. Crisp shirts, dark coats, wool and linen and silk in shades of black and grey. The faint scent of cologne drifted from the fabric—clean, masculine, grounding.

Her chest tightened.

She hesitated only a moment before reaching out and slipping one of the jackets from its hanger. It dwarfed her completely, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, but it covered the bare skin and glittering straps. The weight of it was strangely comforting, though the smell of it—cedar, smoke—unsettled her in ways she didn’t want to think about.

“Who the hell are you?” she whispered into the empty room.

She couldn’t remember much from the night before and had no clue who had been kind enough to drag her out of that hellhole and graciously let her recover.

The elevator’s doors opened with a soft chime, making her jump.

A woman stepped out—slender, middle-aged, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform, balancing a silver tray with coffee and pastries. Her expression shifted in surprise when she saw Margherita standing.

“Oh! You’re awake, signorina. Signore said you might still be resting.”

“Signore…?” Margherita echoed.

“Yes, signorina.” The woman smiled politely. “Breakfast is ready, if you’d like—”

“No.” The word came out too fast, sharp enough to startle them both. Margherita forced a smile. “No, thank you. I’m—I’m in a hurry.”

The maid’s brow creased, confusion flickering. “He said you might need—”

“How much do I owe you?” Margherita interrupted. Her voice trembled, but she masked it with impatience.

The woman blinked. “Owe?”

“For the room. The night.”

The maid shook her head quickly. “Everything is covered, signorina.”

Margherita’s lips curved into a brittle smile. “Of course it is.”

As soon as the woman turned her back to adjust the tray, Margherita moved. She snatched her purse from the chair, heart pounding in her ears. The elevator light still glowed red, but the maid’s keycard sat conveniently on the tray—carelessly, almost invitingly.

Margherita’s hand trembled as she reached for it. One swipe—green.

Her heart hammered as the elevator descended. When the doors opened to the lobby, she walked quickly, heels clicking against the marble, the jacket clutched tight around her. No one stopped her. No one even looked.

Outside, the air hit her like freedom.

She wrapped the jacket tighter and flagged down a taxi with a shaky hand. “Via della Vigna,” she told the driver, giving the name of her street.

He nodded, muttering something about the traffic. She sank into the back seat, staring out the window, her reflection ghosting over the blur of morning streets. For a moment, she thought she might cry. But she didn’t.

You’re fine, she told herself. You’re alive. You’re getting out.

The city passed in a rush of terracotta rooftops and narrow lanes, sunlight spilling over domes and spires. The normalcy hurt more than the fear.

When the taxi stopped in front of her building, she paid quickly, muttering a thank you. She pushed the door open—

And froze.

A black SUV idled at the curb.

Before she could turn, two men stepped out, their suits crisp, expressions unreadable.

“Signorina Altieri,” one of them said. His tone was polite, but his grip on her arm was not. “Your guardian has been worried.”

“Let go of me,” she snapped, twisting hard, but they were stronger.

The second man opened the SUV door smoothly. “Please. Don’t make this difficult.”

She didn’t scream. She just stared up at the clear blue sky—endless, indifferent—and thought, bitterly, how quickly freedom vanished when you’d never really owned it.

They shoved her inside, the door slamming shut behind her.

The car pulled away, tires whispering over the cobblestones.

Ahead waited the gates of the Altieri mansion.

And Simona.