Chapter 3 Breakfast

The morning light didn't wake her. She hadn't really slept.

The chaise lounge had left an ache in her spine and a cold weight behind her eyes. Still wrapped in the soft cream blanket, Emily stared out the tall window. The sky had turned from black to pale grey, and the sun-if it was out-was hidden behind thick mist. She didn't know how long she had been sitting like that, half-asleep, half-frozen.

The knock came exactly at eight.

Sharp. One-two-three. Controlled.

Emily didn't answer.

The door opened anyway.

A woman entered. Early thirties, slim, in a black dress with a stiff white apron. Her features were clean and symmetrical, too sharp to be pretty. Hair pulled back. Expression unreadable.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bianchi," she said. Not warmly.

Emily sat up straighter. "That isn't my name."

The maid didn't blink. "Mr. Bianchi expects you downstairs for breakfast."

A pause. Not quite insolence. But not obedience, either.

Emily stood slowly. She didn't ask for a name. She didn't offer one.

The maid nodded once and stepped back into the hall.

Emily dressed in silence. She chose the plainest thing she could find in the closet: a grey turtleneck dress that fell to her knees, and low black flats. Simple. Soft. But still expensive.

She combed her hair until it obeyed and twisted it into a low knot. She applied no makeup. Her skin looked pale in the mirror. Unfamiliar. But her eyes-those were hers. Quiet. Watchful.

Downstairs, the house had awakened.

The main hallway smelled faintly of coffee. Warm light pooled across the tile floor. Art hung on the walls-contemporary, abstract, cold. The dining room waited at the far end.

Marco was already seated.

He wore a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled once. A watch glinted at his wrist. He didn't look up when she entered.

"Sit," he said.

She did.

A silent man in a suit poured coffee. Another placed a plate in front of her. Eggs, toast, fruit. Too balanced. Too precise.

Marco finally looked at her.

"You slept in the chaise."

It wasn't a question.

She took a sip of coffee. "The bed was too soft."

A flicker. Something like amusement.

"You found the cameras," he said.

She didn't reply.

He watched her eat a bite of toast. "You'll be given a schedule this afternoon. Breakfast is at eight. Dinner at seven. You'll be escorted if you wander beyond the east wing."

"And if I do anyway?"

He tilted his head. "There are doors in this house that do not open for you. Not because they're locked. Because you are not invited."

A pause. She met his eyes. Held.

"I understand," she said.

Marco set down his fork. "You're not here to be understood. You're here to be contained."

The line landed like a stone between them.

She returned to her food. It tasted good, which made her suspicious.

"Who was the maid?" she asked.

"Bianca," he said.

"She doesn't like me."

"She doesn't have to."

That was all.

After the meal, Marco rose. He didn't touch her. He didn't give her orders.

But as he passed, he leaned in just enough to say, "Try not to look like you're planning something."

Then he was gone.

Emily remained in the chair. The coffee had gone cold. Her hands, for once, were steady.

Bianca reappeared.

"Follow me," she said.

They walked down a side corridor that smelled faintly of polished wood and lemon oil. Rooms passed by in a blur: a library, a study, a lounge with no windows.

They stopped outside a closed door.

"This is your personal study," Bianca said. "Mr. Bianchi had it prepared. You may read, write, or sit in silence. Someone will always be nearby."

Emily nodded.

Bianca didn't move.

"You shouldn't get comfortable," she said, softly.

"I don't plan to," Emily replied.

Their eyes met.

Then Bianca turned and walked away.

Emily opened the door.

Inside, the room was smaller. Wood-paneled. A single window. A desk, a chair, a shelf of books curated for her tastes.

She stepped inside and shut the door.

And exhaled.

Not relief.

But the confirmation that every second in this place would be a performance.

She wasn't the only one wearing a mask.

She just had to make sure hers never slipped first.