Chapter 4. Lessons in Grace

Margherita stood before the mirrored wall, her reflection pale in a pastel leotard. The music swelled softly from the speakers—Tchaikovsky again, always Tchaikovsky—as her teacher’s sharp voice sliced through the melody.

“Margherita! You’re wrong again. Plié, not collapse. Shoulders back.”

Margherita bit the inside of her cheek and forced her spine to lengthen, her arms to curve into the perfect line. Every movement hurt—her ankles throbbed, her calves burned. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and expressionless, framed by light and silence.

There were no other students. There never were.

This was a private class—her own personal purgatory.

Simona insisted it made her “focus.”

For the last several days, she’d been confined to her room under the watch of silent maids and locked doors.

Her very existence had blurred into a single, suffocating rhythm.

Wake up. Weigh in. Breakfast—fruit and black coffee. Lessons in posture, piano, and deportment. Ballet in the afternoon. No television, no phone, no visitors.

The maids had tended to her like she was a fragile doll, washing, polishing, curling her hair, painting her face. The dark circles beneath her eyes were gone, her skin restored to porcelain smoothness.

Simona’s cold satisfaction had been the final insult.

“At last,” she had said, inspecting Margherita’s face like a sculptor appraising her marble. “You look decent again.”

Now, under the glaring light of the studio, that word decent felt like a noose.

Her teacher clapped once. “Focus. You have no grace today.”

Margherita swallowed the urge to laugh. She had never had grace. Not the way Simona demanded—mechanical, perfect, empty.

She knew she would never be a good dancer. She had started ballet too late, and for all the talk of posture and control, the lessons were nothing more than punishment dressed as refinement. Every arabesque burned. Every turn ended in a stumble. Her body resisted the beauty forced upon it.

The mirrors reflected her from every side—the obedient Altieri girl, the stepdaughter of a queen who ruled a gilded prison.

When the teacher turned her back, Margherita let her shoulders sag.

Across the room, near the exit, two of Simona’s men waited in plain clothes. They pretended to be bored, scrolling through their phones, but she could feel their eyes on her like invisible strings.

Try to run, they seemed to say. We dare you.

The teacher adjusted the needle on the record player. “Again. From the beginning.”

Margherita’s legs trembled. “May I have a break?”

“Two minutes.”

She curtseyed automatically and slipped from the studio. The moment she reached the hallway, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

The bathroom was empty, silent except for the slow drip of a faucet. She locked the door, turned on the tap to cover the sound, and knelt beside the toilet tank. Inside, wrapped in a hand towel, was the small burner phone. Her one secret. Her one freedom.

Her hands shook as she dialed a number from memory. The line clicked once.

“Costanzo,” she whispered, barely breathing.

A deep voice answered almost immediately. “Margherita? Christ, where have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I was stupid. I thought I could have one night, just one. But Simona found out. She’s locked me up again. There’s no way out.”

He exhaled heavily, the sound distorted through the tiny speaker. “You’re lucky she didn’t do worse. You have no idea how many people would sell their souls for your father’s name, ragazza mia.”

“I was so close,” she murmured, voice trembling. “The papers were almost ready. A few more weeks, and I could’ve left for good. But now—”

“You’ll have another chance,” Costanzo cut in gently. “But not if you act rashly. For now, keep your head down. Obey her. Pretend she’s won.”

Margherita pressed her fingers against her temple. “You know what she’s like, padrino. I can’t—”

“You can,” he said firmly. “You have to.” His tone softened. “Let her think she’s in control. She’s plotting something, and I need to know what. I’ll figure out how to get you out when the time’s right.”

“Just… don’t tell anyone,” she said, voice cracking. “Not even the people you trust.”

“I won’t. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

A knock rattled the door—sharp, impatient.

“Signorina?” the man’s voice called. “Everything alright in there?”

Her pulse spiked. She ended the call, shoved the phone back into its hiding place, and flushed the toilet for show.

“One moment!” she called, forcing steadiness into her tone.

When she stepped out, one of Simona’s guards was waiting, arms crossed.

“Everything alright?”

“Perfectly.” She smiled with brittle composure and walked past him before he could ask more.

Back in the studio, the music resumed—soft, elegant, merciless.

Margherita took her mark again. She forced herself into position, arms rising, back straightening, the perfect posture restored. Her reflection in the mirror was flawless: poised, graceful, obedient.

But behind the careful mask, her heart beat with quiet defiance.

If Simona wanted discipline, she would give it to her—just enough to make her believe the performance.

And when the curtain fell, she’d be gone.

***

Simona stood by the tall window of her study, one manicured hand resting on the silk curtain.

Outside, the black car rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the estate. Margherita stepped out, flanked by two of her guards, her head bowed, her movements slow and obedient. The late afternoon sun caught in her brown hair, turning it to bronze.

At last, Simona thought, she obeys.

The phone on her desk chimed once—a reminder of the call she’d received the night before, the one that still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Maurizio Benedetti.

The mere sound of his voice had been enough to set her teeth on edge.

“Your girl was seen,” he had said without preamble. “In the city. Unaccompanied. I thought we had an understanding, Simona.”

Simona had forced her tone calm. “She is under my supervision, Maurizio. She simply made a foolish mistake.”

“Mistake or not, she’s mine by Domenico’s word,” Maurizio had snapped. “My son deserves a wife with discipline, not scandal. If you can’t manage her, I’ll send my men to fetch her. I assure you, they won’t ask her opinion.”

Simona’s fingers had tightened around the receiver then. “That won’t be necessary. She will be ready when the time comes. There’s no need for… theatrics. She’s frightened enough as it is.”

“Good,” he had said. “Fear is a teacher. Remember that.”

The line had gone dead, leaving only the echo of his contempt.

Now, watching Margherita walk up the marble steps, Simona’s lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a frown.

“Fear is a teacher,” she murmured. “But I prefer results.”

She turned from the window. Maurizio thought her a pawn, a mere caretaker for the Altieri girl. He underestimated her—they all did.

If he believed she would hand Margherita over like a parcel, he was mistaken.

Margherita might have been Domenico’s daughter, but Simona had been the one to survive him. She had built the life, kept the house, navigated the sharks that swam around Domenico’s fortune. She had earned her place, and she wasn’t about to surrender it to the Benedettis’ arrogance.

Let Maurizio think she would cooperate. Let him wait.

She would find another use for Margherita—a wealthier suitor, a more pliable alliance, someone she could control.

Simona straightened her cuffs, her pearls catching the dying light, and left the study.

When she entered Margherita’s room, two maids were tending to her—brushing her hair, wiping the sheen of sweat from her temples after ballet. The girl sat quietly, eyes downcast, every line of her body radiating exhaustion.

“That’s enough,” Simona said.

The maids curtsied and left without a word.

The silence that followed was soft and deliberate.

Margherita lifted her gaze, the faintest flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

Simona approached slowly, heels clicking against the parquet floor. “You will accompany me tomorrow evening.”

Margherita blinked. “To… where?”

“To a gathering,” Simona said. “A private event. I expect you to look your best. Your dress will be delivered in the morning.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door. “And, Margherita—”

The girl looked up again.

Simona’s voice softened, deceptively gentle. “No more mistakes. Do you understand?”

Margherita hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Simona.”

“Good.”