Chapter 8. The Favor

Margherita woke to stillness.

For a long moment, she couldn’t move. Her head throbbed, each heartbeat pulsing behind her eyes.

She opened her eyes slowly. Pale morning light slipped through half-drawn curtains, cutting across the room. The sheets beneath her were silk, smooth and cool against her skin.

When she finally sat up, the room tilted.

It wasn’t the gilded comfort of the Altieri mansion, nor the sterile brightness of a hospital. It was somewhere in between—sleek and masculine, with dark wood furniture and polished steel.

She pressed a hand to her temple. The events of the night before slammed back like breaking glass—the party, the toast, the applause, the garden, the hand over her mouth—

Her pulse spiked.

Kidnapped.

She looked down quickly. Her gown was gone. In its place, a pale silk nightdress—too fine, too deliberate. Her skin showed no bruises. No pain except the ache in her neck.

Her breath steadied, shallow