Chapter 2 My fiancé

The time for dinner had arrived, the one that was supposed to be the grand official introduction: Clara and Martina before the family, under the scrutinizing gaze of everyone. At the vineyard estate, the dining room felt like a sanctuary where luxury and tradition intertwined, and I, the newcomer, was the protagonist no one fully accepted. I felt that at any moment, the ground could open up and swallow the imposture that was holding me up.

Marco appeared in the doorway with his calm, elegant, almost rehearsed step. He wore a dark suit that highlighted his light eyes, the same ones that could sparkle with charm while also radiating absolute coldness. I glanced at him sideways, trying to decipher what was hidden behind that controlled smile he offered the family.

"Clara," he said, slightly tilting his head. "I hope you've found your place here."

I replied with a "yes," though my mind screamed something else. There was something about him that irritated me, like an invisible shadow preventing me from breathing easily.

We sat at the table, surrounded by relatives who exchanged quick glances and barely disguised whispers. The conversation revolved around trivial topics: the weather, the last harvest, the wine industry's economy. But I was focused on Marco, on every gesture, every calculated pause.

He acted like the perfect host, polite and charming; but also distant, as if maintaining an invisible barrier. When his eyes rested on me, I felt a confusing mix of attraction and frustration. His gaze was as cold as a glass of the red wine being delicately poured, and I wanted to break that armor, though deep down I knew perhaps I shouldn't.

Amid the forced silence, an aunt made a comment about his childhood, and that's when I noticed it: a slight tremor in his hands, a fleeting shadow on his face, a moment when his lips pressed together too tightly. "It was... peculiar," he replied, quickly changing the subject.

My senses sharpened, feeling cold sweat on the back of my neck and that uncomfortable knot in my stomach. Something about that response was disturbingly honest, and yet veiled.

Martina, sitting next to me, gave me a knowing glance, as if she too sensed that strange tension.

Throughout the dinner, I noticed how Marco avoided certain topics, how his gestures became stiffer each time someone mentioned his past. There was something he didn't want us to know, a secret he guarded jealously.

When the conversation shifted to the family, an old photo appeared in the hands of one of the cousins, but just as I managed to glimpse the image, someone quickly took it away. I felt a pang of curiosity and frustration: why hide something as insignificant as a photo?

After dinner, as we were about to leave, Nicolo appeared in the hallway. His presence, strong and silent, filled the space. He shot me a look that mixed warning with something like desire.

"Don't be fooled by appearances, Clara," he whispered in a low voice. "We all carry wounds here that we don't want to acknowledge. I suppose you have yours too."

My breath faltered for a second. His closeness was dangerous, almost intoxicating. But I also felt that uncomfortable fear, like approaching him was stepping into a game from which I wouldn't emerge unscathed.

That night, in my room, memories attacked me relentlessly. Fragments of forgotten conversations, blurred images, words that now carried a different meaning. I knew I was entering a labyrinth, and with every step, I was getting closer to a truth that could either destroy me or empower me.

But I couldn't afford to retreat. Not when money and power were so close.

Trying to push away my thoughts, I focused on the room. It was impregnated with that smell of old wood and aged wine that seemed to have stuck to the walls of the estate. I closed the door behind me and sank into the chair by the window. Outside, the vineyards stretched like a motionless sea under the moon, and inside me, everything was a whirlwind of uncertainty and desire.

I remembered that tremor in Marco's hands when his childhood was mentioned. What the hell had happened? What secrets was he so desperate to hide? I wanted to scream, demand answers; but instead, I bit my lip and felt a wave of nausea that forced me to take a deep breath, filling my lungs with cold air.

Martina appeared in the doorway, with that smile that hid more than it showed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her tone mixing concern with curiosity.

"Of course," I lied, not convincing myself.

We sat together, and she began talking about the wedding preparations, but I barely heard her. My mind was still trapped in the image I had barely seen: a childhood photo, hidden and hurriedly taken away. I wanted to grab it, search for it in the family album, but the opportunity slipped away like a sigh.

Later, as Martina slept, I replayed every gesture, every word. Marco was charming, yes, but there was an invisible wall between us. And then there was Nicolo, the older brother, with that dangerous mix of hardness and magnetism that made me wonder if he was my salvation or my damnation.

The silence in the estate was heavy, almost tangible. The walls seemed to whisper secrets, and I was determined to uncover them, even if that meant playing with fire.

I knew the story I was about to begin wouldn't be simple. But I also knew that with every lie, every glance, every hidden gesture, I was getting closer to that power I longed for.

Because in that family, nothing was as it seemed. I had no doubt about that.

And I was ready to take advantage of it. To take control.