Lines Drawn in Stone
Ava learned quickly that nights in the Romano estate were not meant for rest.
Sleep came in fragments—thin, shallow pieces stitched together by vigilance rather than peace. Every creak of the building, every distant murmur beyond her door threaded itself into her dreams. Even when exhaustion finally dragged her under, she woke often, heart racing, unsure what had pulled her back to the surface.
By morning, she felt hollowed out.
She dressed slowly, deliberately, grounding herself in routine. The dress she chose was simple, long-sleeved, dark. Safe. She braided her hair back from her face, neat and controlled, as though order on the outside might quiet the storm inside her chest.
When she stepped into the hallway, the guards stationed discreetly along the corridor acknowledged her presence with subtle nods. Not deference. Awareness. She was known now. Catalogued.
Breakfast awaited her again in the grand dining room but Alessandro was not there.
The empty seat at the head of the table unsettled her more than his presence ever had. Without him, the room felt unanchored. She ate in silence, every bite mechanical, listening to the faint echo of voices somewhere deeper in the estate.
He was busy.
That alone told her more than words could have.
After breakfast, Ava wandered the limits she had been quietly allowed—never past the invisible lines drawn through hallways and courtyards. She had begun to recognize them now: the places where guards subtly shifted, where doors were always closed, where movement was discouraged without being forbidden.
The garden was one such place of permitted illusion.
It was expansive, manicured to perfection, stone paths winding through sculpted hedges and fountains that whispered endlessly. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine.
Ava walked slowly, letting the rhythm of her steps calm her breathing.
For a moment—just one—she almost felt normal.
That illusion shattered when she realized she was no longer alone.
Alessandro stood near the far edge of the garden, phone pressed to his ear, posture rigid. His voice carried faintly, low and controlled, threaded with an edge she had not heard before.
"No," he said. "That is not an option."
A pause.
"You should have thought of that before you moved."
Ava stopped walking.
She should leave. She knew that instinctively. This was not meant for her ears. But something rooted her in place—curiosity, fear, or the need to understand the man who dictated her every movement.
Alessandro turned, ending the call abruptly. His gaze landed on her instantly.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then he straightened, his expression shuttering closed.
"You should not be here," he said.
Her spine stiffened. "I was told the garden was acceptable."
"It is," he replied. "When I am not conducting business."
The words stung more than she expected. "I didn't realize I needed permission to breathe."
His eyes darkened. "You need permission to be safe."
Silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous.
"I won't apologize for existing," Ava said quietly.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps. Or irritation. Or something deeper, quickly buried.
"You will learn," Alessandro said, his voice low, "that survival here depends on knowing when to disappear."
"And what if I don't want to disappear?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
He stepped closer, his presence immediate, imposing. Not threatening but commanding. "Then you will be noticed."
His gaze dropped briefly to her hands, clenched at her sides, before returning to her face. "And being noticed is rarely a kindness in my world."
She held his stare, her heart pounding. "Then why bring me into it?"
The question lingered between them, dangerous and unanswered.
Alessandro turned away first. "Go back inside."
It was dismissal, not cruelty but it felt like a line drawn in stone.
That afternoon, Ava was restless. The estate felt smaller now, its walls pressing in with every step. She replayed the exchange in the garden again and again, the tension in Alessandro's voice, the restraint in his movements.
He was not cruel. Not overtly.
But he was dangerous in ways she was only beginning to understand.
As evening approached, a knock sounded at her door.
Sofia entered, composed as ever. "You are to join Signor Romano for dinner. Private."
Ava's pulse quickened. "Just us?"
"Yes."
The dining room was quieter than usual when she arrived. No guests. No staff hovering nearby. Alessandro sat at the table, jacket removed, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms marked faintly by old scars.
He gestured for her to sit.
They ate in near silence, the air thick with unspoken words.
Finally, Alessandro spoke. "You were not wrong earlier."
She looked up. "About?"
"You did not choose this," he said. "And you are not wrong for resisting it."
Her breath caught slightly. She had not expected acknowledgment—certainly not that.
"But," he continued, "resistance must be intelligent. Emotional defiance will only make you vulnerable."
"So what do you expect from me?" Ava asked.
"Adaptation," he replied calmly. "Observation. Patience."
She studied him across the table—the controlled posture, the guarded eyes, the weight of responsibility etched into every line of his face.
"And in return?" she asked softly.
"For now," he said, "your family remains safe."
It was not a promise. It was a reminder.
That night, alone once more, Ava sat by the window, staring out into the darkness beyond the estate grounds. The world she had known felt impossibly far away.
She understood something now, with painful clarity.
This marriage was not meant to cage her body.
It was meant to test her spirit.
And if she was going to survive Alessandro Romano's world, she would have to learn where the lines were drawn and when to step just close enough to them without crossing.
Because silence, she was beginning to realize, was not submission.
It was strategy.