Chapter 4 Four

Lucia placed her napkin on the table, gently but with finality. Her appetite had faded somewhere between the duck and the silence. She wasn't full. She wasn't annoyed. Just done. The candlelight danced over her untouched glass of wine as she reached up to brush a fallen curl away from her face.

The dining room was grand-another show of wealth she hadn't asked for. Tall ceilings, thick gold curtains framing wide windows, chandeliers that sparkled like ice. It was the kind of place where people ate quietly not because they respected each other, but because the walls listened.

Vincenzo hadn't spoken much since she sat. He leaned back in his chair, one hand around his wine glass, watching her from the head of the table like she was a painting in a museum. Studied. Interpreted. Never touched. His sleeves were still rolled, veins prominent under ink and tension, shirt unbuttoned just enough to remind her he didn't mind being seen.

Lucia wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.

She stood.

He didn't move.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

"You didn't eat."

"I'm not hungry."

His voice stayed calm. "You didn't even try."

She looked at him. "I wasn't aware I owed you that."

He studied her quietly, neither confirming nor denying whatever thoughts passed behind those eyes of his. He didn't challenge her decision, which only made her more aware that he could've. She didn't want him to. But the fact that he didn't... that was something.

She turned away from the table and took a step toward the hallway.

Then came the sound-heels clicking on the floor, not hurried, not timid, just sure of themselves.

Lucia glanced over her shoulder as the dining room doors were pulled open from the inside. A woman entered without hesitation.

Tall, stunning, dressed in black silk that hugged her body like a second skin. She looked exactly how women like her always looked-flawless, practiced, intentional. Red lipstick. Long earrings. Her hair pulled into a twist that exposed every inch of her neck. It wasn't the beauty that made Lucia pause. It was the timing. The way this stranger walked in like she knew where to stand, where to look, and how to smile like she'd smiled in this room before.

Her eyes didn't go to Lucia first. They went to Vincenzo.

"Well," the woman said softly. "This brings back memories."

Lucia remained standing where she was, her posture straight, her face calm.

Vincenzo didn't rise. He looked at the woman, then at Lucia, then back again.

"You weren't invited," he said, tone even.

"I never needed an invitation before," the woman replied, walking in like she hadn't heard the rejection. She walked past Lucia without a glance, straight to the table, and rested her hand against the back of the chair to Vincenzo's right. "I heard the news. Couldn't resist seeing if it was true."

Vincenzo didn't respond.

Lucia didn't either. She turned back toward the hall.

"Leaving already?" the woman asked, her voice coated in pleasant cruelty.

Lucia stopped mid-step and looked over her shoulder. "You weren't speaking to me."

"I was," the woman said, her eyes finally meeting hers. "Just being polite."

Lucia held her gaze. "I don't return favors I didn't ask for."

The woman smiled a little tighter. "I'm Sienna."

Lucia nodded once. "Congratulations."

Sienna blinked. "For what?"

"For announcing yourself like someone still waiting to be chosen."

Vincenzo stood.

The motion was clean, quiet, deliberate. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't touch either of them. He simply walked around the table and stood beside Lucia.

"You can leave," he told Sienna.

She looked at him, her mouth parting slightly. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Her eyes flicked to Lucia again, sharper now. "She doesn't even know who I am."

Lucia turned toward the door without looking back. "And I never will."

Sienna took a step forward, her voice low but firm. "You think you're something special because you walked down an aisle he didn't want to build? You're just-"

"Enough," Vincenzo said.

Sienna froze.

He didn't raise his tone, but something in the room changed when he spoke. Even the chandelier light seemed to steady.

"I didn't invite you," he said. "And I don't need your opinion."

Sienna looked at Lucia again. But there was no response waiting for her. Lucia didn't need to gloat. She didn't need to stare her down or win some invisible prize.

She was already winning by not needing to.

Vincenzo didn't touch her, but when she moved to walk away, his voice followed her.

"Lucia."

She paused.

"Stay."

She looked over her shoulder, just once. "You don't get to demand that."

And then she left.

Her footsteps were quiet down the hall, but every step was deliberate. She didn't slam the door when she reached her room. She didn't curse or cry. She simply stood for a moment in the middle of the bedroom and exhaled. She wasn't angry. Not jealous. She had just seen something she didn't need to compete with. Some women confuse power with presence. Sienna had walked into that room like a storm. Lucia had left like the eye of one.

Back in the dining room, Sienna stood still.

Her jaw tightened. "So she walks away, and that's it?"

"She doesn't scream," Vincenzo said. "She doesn't throw glasses. She doesn't need to be heard."

Sienna moved toward him. "And what does she need?"

He didn't answer.

"You used to like women who fight for you."

"I don't want to be fought over," he said.

"You used to like me."

He gave her a long look.

"You used to be quiet, Sienna," he said. "Then you realized silence wouldn't get you what you wanted, so you started walking louder."

Sienna crossed her arms. "You're marrying that girl because it suits your business. Don't pretend this is about loyalty."

He didn't blink. "I'm not pretending anything."

"I see how you look at her."

He stepped back. "Then stop coming here."

Sienna's lip curled, but she didn't speak again. She walked to the door, not rushing, but the confidence from earlier had changed. Not lost-just bruised.

She didn't kiss his cheek again.

She left with nothing.

And that was what stung the most.

Vincenzo remained in the room long after she was gone, eyes on the doorway Lucia had walked through. He didn't chase either of them. Not out of indifference. Out of knowing exactly what mattered.

And exactly what didn't.

He stood there a while longer, unmoving, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair where Lucia had sat. The silence felt different now-cleaner. Like a room purged of noise it never asked for. He rolled his shoulders back once, and the tension in his jaw loosened as he turned toward the wide hallway that led upstairs.

He didn't knock when he reached her door.

He stood in front of it, listened for a moment, then turned away without entering.

Lucia hadn't locked it.

She hadn't needed to.

Inside, she sat on the edge of the bed, the dress still on her body like a second skin. Her hands rested in her lap again, not clenched, not shaking-just still. She stared ahead at nothing in particular, the chandelier above casting quiet light on the corners of the room. The silence here wasn't heavy. It was chosen.

She hadn't expected to be tested this early. Not by him. And certainly not by whoever that woman was. But maybe she had. Maybe deep down she'd always known men like Vincenzo didn't come alone-they came with ghosts. Lovers. Baggage. Power.

But none of that mattered to her.

He could've had ten women in his past.

They weren't her concern.

Lucia leaned back on her palms slowly and stared at the ceiling. Her dress tightened at her hips, the fabric creasing just slightly under her body's weight. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to take a deep breath. In. Out. Measured. Her mind wasn't racing. It wasn't even running. It was watching. Storing.

She would never beg to be someone's first choice. She had married a man for her family's survival, not her heart's hunger. That didn't mean she would play the quiet wife, sitting obediently while strangers waltzed in to lay claim on a name she now bore.

No. That wasn't her.

A soft knock finally came, low and muted.

She didn't answer.

The door cracked open anyway.

Vincenzo stepped inside, his presence large even in stillness. He looked around the room once, noting the untouched water glass on the vanity, the way she hadn't changed out of her dress, the calm on her face.

"I sent her away," he said quietly.

Lucia didn't move. "You didn't have to."

"I did."

She finally looked at him. "Why?"

He took a step closer, but didn't cross the invisible line between them. "Because you didn't ask me to."

Lucia tilted her head slightly. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It means you didn't need to defend yourself. So I did."

She gave a short, quiet laugh-not mocking, not amused. Just a breath. A sound without feeling.

"I don't need defending," she said.

He nodded once. "I know."

The space between them held something fragile. Not tension. Not desire. Just something quietly forming in the dark. Like mutual understanding clawing its way to the surface.

He ran a hand through his hair, muscles flexing beneath the open cuff of his shirt. The tattoos on his forearm caught the light-sharp lines, blurred edges. Stories she hadn't asked about. Scars she hadn't touched.

"You hate being here," he said.

She didn't deny it.

"You think I'm the villain in this story."

Lucia looked him squarely in the face. "A man who uses a brother to trap a woman into marriage? What would you call him?"

He didn't flinch.

She stood, finally. The movement was graceful, controlled. She stepped forward until they were nearly face to face. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel it.

"I don't need apologies," she said. "I don't even want them."

"What do you want?"

Lucia looked up at him, her chin lifted, her eyes sharp. "Respect. And space. And silence when I ask for it."

He studied her a second too long.

"I can give you that."

"I know."

She turned away first this time. Walked to the window and pulled it open, letting the breeze hit her face. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled like something just ended. Clean. Quiet. Bare.

Vincenzo watched her for a moment longer, then stepped back.

"I'll have your things moved to the east wing tomorrow."

She said nothing.

He didn't push.

As he left, she heard the door close with the same care she hadn't expected from a man with hands like his.

It didn't feel like a victory.

It felt like a beginning.

A quiet one.

And maybe that was the most dangerous kind.