The days grew warmer, and the Moretti estate seemed to hum with a quiet rhythm that neither of them dared disturb. Alessia had begun to find her place — not as a guest, not as a wife bound by duty, but as someone who belonged, even if she didn't yet understand how.
She spent her mornings in the garden, trimming the roses that had grown wild. The staff had learned to respect her silence, the same way they respected Damian's authority. She didn't need to raise her voice; her presence was enough.
Damian watched her sometimes from the balcony above, a file in his hand, his expression unreadable. He had grown used to her being there — the sound of her footsteps, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the hallways. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
That evening, they dined together in the courtyard. The air was soft, the sky painted in fading gold.
"You've been quiet lately," Alessia said, breaking the silence.
"I've been thinking," Damian replied.
"About what?"
He hesitated, then looked at her. "About what comes next."
She tilted her head. "You mean business?"
He shook his head. "No. Us."
The word hung between them, fragile and dangerous. Alessia's breath caught, but she said nothing.
He leaned back, his gaze steady. "You don't have to answer. I just needed to say it."
She looked down at her plate, her fingers tracing the rim. "You always say things like that — half a truth, then silence."
"Maybe I'm afraid of what comes after the truth."
Her eyes lifted to his. "Then maybe it's time you stop being afraid."
Later that night, Alessia couldn't sleep. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made thoughts louder. She wandered through the halls until she found herself outside the study. The door was slightly open, light spilling through the crack.
Inside, Damian sat at his desk, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him. Papers were scattered across the surface, but his attention was fixed on a small photograph — a younger version of himself, standing beside a man who looked both proud and dangerous.
Alessia stepped inside. "Your father?"
He didn't look up. "Yes."
"You look like him."
"I hope not."
She moved closer, her voice soft. "You don't have to carry everything he left behind."
He finally looked at her, his eyes dark and tired. "It's not that simple."
"Maybe it is," she said. "If you let it be."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Damian stood, closing the distance between them. His hand brushed her cheek — hesitant, almost questioning.
"Alessia," he said quietly, "you make me forget what I am."
She met his gaze, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe that's the point."
Outside, the night deepened. The wind moved through the olive trees, carrying the scent of rain. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled — soft, distant, a warning of storms yet to come.
But for now, in that quiet room, the world had narrowed to two people and the unspoken things between them.