Chapter 5 I Sneak into Their Secrets

I felt my pulse quicken the moment I saw Marco hanging up the phone, hunched over in the corner of the living room. It wasn't a gesture that would escape someone used to pretending normalcy at family dinners, but there was something different: the tension in his hands, the gaze lost behind the window, the slight tremor in his fingers that made the receiver wobble. An invisible crack in the flawless surface of that world he had entered with so many expectations.

I approached slowly, measuring each word I was about to speak. I knew curiosity was my best weapon, but it could also be my greatest trap. I enjoy seeing you out of place, I would have liked to say, but instead, my voice remained silent. I suppose my face said it all.

When he hung up, it took him a moment to notice me. He threw me a smile that was meant to be natural, but it didn't hide the surprise in his eyes.

"Nothing important," he said, rushing the phrase as if he wanted to close a chapter that was just beginning to be written.

I didn't believe him.

That silence of his, the heavy air he left behind, told me there was more. There was always more.

The tension between us began to rise. The rehearsals for the wedding, which should have been moments of calm and organization, turned into a dangerous game where every unsaid word carried more weight than a thousand confessions. Barely any evasive glances gave away the discomfort of the situation.

Marco was charming when he wanted to be, a gallant figure in his perfectly tailored suit, but there was a distance even the best of my intentions couldn't cross. He shielded himself all day long, at least in front of us.

During one of those afternoons, while adjusting the veil that Martina was helping me place for the dress fitting, Marco appeared with a tray of wines in his hand. His steps were silent but firm. The room was filled with intense aromas, a scent I would have liked to associate with something warm, but it only made me nervous.

"You know?" he started without looking at me, as if trying to lower the tension between us. "Years ago, I went on a trip that changed many things. I haven't told you because... it's not easy to explain."

I wanted to ask more, but his gaze pierced mine with a non-verbal warning that paralyzed my tongue.

"I don't want you to misinterpret," he continued, in that low voice that promised both secrets and threats in equal measure. "Not everything that seems important has to be for you."

I felt him turn his back on me. It was an emotional distance that cut the air between us. It was obvious that he was bound by his family to accept our engagement.

My frustration mixed with something darker: an insatiable curiosity and the certainty that if I didn't untangle that mystery soon, my plans could fall apart. I couldn't let this opportunity to climb in society slip away. I had no other choice; it would be my end.

Intermittent flashbacks flooded my mind: fragments of conversations with Martina, the veiled comments from the tailor who had mentioned "very particular adjustments" in Marco's suit. What adjustments? What secrets were hidden behind that perfection?

The international call I overheard as I passed near the library, rapid conversations in a language I couldn't understand, kept spinning in my head. It was all part of a puzzle I didn't yet know how to piece together.

Marco wasn't just avoiding me; it seemed like he was protecting something he feared. Even more than losing his position or his family. What if the truth was so terrible that no one dared to speak it? What if I never found out?

That night, in the room I shared with Martina, I turned toward the window, letting the darkness envelop me. The scent of the damp vineyard drifted through the crack, mingling with the cold sweat on my hands.

I thought about the future I had imagined. A golden future, wrapped in jewels and endless parties, where all I had to do was maintain the appearance.

But the obstacles began to show, and beneath that shiny surface, the truth was waiting for me, sharp and cruel.

"Don't be mistaken," I whispered to myself. "This isn't just a game of power. It's a war of wills, and you're not going to lose."

The next morning, the hours were a parade of calculated gestures and measured words. Marco appeared in the living room with that impeccable smile of his, one that seemed designed to erase any doubt, but there was something in his eyes that didn't fit. A shadow that moved with every step, a nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips.

He tried to maintain composure, but the fragility escaped him in small details: the way he avoided looking at me directly when we spoke about the wedding, the way his hands tightened around the wine glass, the stifled sigh when someone mentioned childhood. His mother's evasive look.

"Can we see pictures of your childhood?" I asked one afternoon while we went over the wedding cake design. I was hoping he would relent and show me the family album, but his eyes lit up, and I saw a fleeting flash of annoyance.

"I'd prefer not to deal with that now," he replied quickly, setting aside the brochure he had been holding.

That reaction was a direct shot to my curiosity. What was in those photos that Marco didn't want me to see?

In the kitchen, Martina whispered to me that she had overheard two servants arguing softly about the trip Marco took years ago, the one he didn't want to remember. My sister's voice trembled a little, a mix of fear and intrigue.

But what confused me most was the growing distance between Marco and Nicolo. In the few moments they crossed paths, the tension was palpable, in every glance, in every unspoken word.

That night, as I lay in bed, I replayed each moment, every gesture, every silence. The certainty burned in my chest: Marco was hiding something from me, something that threatened not only my wedding but the entire balance of that family. Whatever it was, nothing would stop me from becoming the lady of that family.

And as the darkness enveloped me, one question spun relentlessly in my mind:

What would I do when the truth, inevitable and cruel, knocked on the door?