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I slept... deeply.

Too deeply.

"Did you—" I clear my throat. "Was there something in that water?"

Teresa's lips thin. "A mild sedative. On Mr. Ravelli's orders. He wanted you well-rested for the big day, my dear."

I flick my eyes to the nightstand again.

The glass is empty.

I don’t remember finishing it. I don’t remember lying down. I don’t even remember crawling beneath the silk sheets that now cling to my skin like smoke.

Just… fragments.

I remember the scent of rosewater. Teresa had drawn the bath herself. The water had been laced with oils and petals, pink blossoms floating around me as I sank beneath the surface.

And she’d watched me the whole time.

Not once did she speak as she scrubbed my back with a sponge soft enough to make me ache. Not once did she look away as I stood naked as the day I was born, dripping wet as she wrapped me in a towel thick as mink.

I was clean. Sanitized. Prepared.

She combed my hair, sang softly in Italian, and sat me on a velvet bench by the fire while she laid out the nightgown and handed me the glass.

Of course he did this.

Because I'm not a person to him—I'm property to be managed.

Amongst the haze inside my head, a silver breakfast cart appears beside the bed, laden with fresh berries, perfectly poached eggs, and orange juice in crystal.

Teresa beams at me as she arranges it over my lap. The silver tray shines in the light, the edges scalloped, a linen napkin folded beside the fine china. Steam curls from a delicate teacup, but it’s the single bloom in the tiny crystal vase that makes my breath catch.

A peony flower. Pale pink, ruffled and perfect.

My favorite.

Peonies grew wild behind the council flats where I grew up. My mother used to braid them into my hair, say they were too pretty for the ground.

I've never told anyone that. Not even Marcus.

The tray suddenly feels heavier, like it's laced with meaning I can't quite touch. Didhe—? How does he—?

"Eat. You'll need your strength."

I can't tear my eyes from the peony. Its petals unfurl like secrets, each layer a deeper shade of pink than the last.

Teresa's gentle singing fills the room again, her voice low and sweet as she moves around the bed, straightening sheets and pulling the curtains wider.

The melody wraps around me, but I can't quiet place the song. Something old, something Italian. The words float past in a language I don't understand, but the tone reminds me of lullabies I used to love.

I reach out and touch the flower's edge with one finger. The petal is cool, still damp with morning dew.

"How did he—?" The question sticks in my throat. "Teresa, where is Luca?"

"Mr. Ravelli?" Teresa's eyebrow arches. "You think he sleeps here? Oh dear child, you have much to learn about the Ravelli family."

I push berries around my plate. "But this is his wing."