Chapter 10: Under the Same Roof

The dining hall at Villa Aurelia was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting a golden glow over polished mahogany, vintage wine glasses, and more silverware than Isabel knew what to do with. A long rectangular table stretched across the room, dressed in white linen and decorated with floating candles and sprigs of rosemary.

Laughter floated from the far end, where her father sat among business associates. Vivian, in a silky cream gown, flitted between chairs like a perfect hostess, her smile too practiced to be sincere.

Isabel clutched her champagne flute and tried to remember how to breathe.

“You sound like you’re going to bolt,” Jenna’s message popped up after Isabel filled her in.

“I might.” Isabel typed.

Isabel’s gaze flicked toward the opposite end of the table, where Alessandro stood in a black suit, speaking quietly with a pair of suited men. He hadn’t looked at her once since they entered the room, but she felt him like static—buzzing beneath her skin.

“He hasn’t stopped clenching his jaw?” Jenna added. “I think he wants to murder someone. Probably you. Or kiss you. Maybe both.” Another message.

Isabel took a sip of champagne. It did nothing to cool the heat rising up her neck.

Vivian appeared beside her then, smiling like a politician. “Darling,” she purred, touching Isabel’s elbow, “will you sit next to me? We have so much catching up to do.”

Isabel plastered on a tight smile. “Of course.”

The seating arrangement, of course, was not accidental.

Vivian guided her toward the middle of the long table—right next to Alessandro.

Perfect.

As they sat, Isabel glanced up just once. His gaze met hers.

It was brief. Controlled. Unreadable.

But it sliced through her anyway.

She shifted in her seat and reached for her water glass.

Vivian chatted politely about summer plans and charity benefits while waiters began to serve the appetizers—grilled octopus, crusty bread, and a soft cheese that smelled like regret. Isabel barely heard her.

She was too busy tracking every movement across the table. The way Alessandro’s fingers curled slowly around his glass. The way he adjusted his cuffs with precise, elegant ease. How he looked away from her like he hadn’t once held her against his chest or traced his fingers down her back in the dark.

It was infuriating.

And yet her skin buzzed with the memory of his touch.

“Try the pecorino,” Vivian was saying, oblivious. “It’s aged here on the island. I swear by it.”

Isabel murmured a thanks and stabbed a piece of bread with more force than necessary.

“So,” Vivian continued, voice chipper, “how are you finding the villa? Comfortable, I hope?”

“I’ve been… adjusting.”

“Sharing a suite can be tricky,” Vivian said lightly. “But Alessandro’s traveled so much, he’s used to—what would you call it—flexibility?”

Across the table, his expression didn’t change. But his gaze flicked toward Vivian just briefly. A warning? A plea? Isabel couldn’t tell.

She sipped her water, lips dry. “He’s been… polite.”

Vivian smiled, but her eyes flickered between them too sharply. “Polite. That’s new.”

Isabel laughed once—just to keep from screaming.

A soft chime of silverware against glass drew attention toward the head of the table. Her father stood, lifting his wine glass.

“I just want to say how honored I am,” he began, voice thick with self-importance, “to have my beautiful daughter and new family all under one roof. To growth. To healing. To new beginnings.”

He looked at her when he said it.

Isabel stared down into her plate.

Next to her, Vivian dabbed the corner of her eye with a cloth napkin like this was all too emotional to bear.

When her father sat back down, Alessandro raised his glass too. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.

The edge in his voice was knife-sharp.

Isabel didn’t raise hers.

Dinner progressed in waves—courses came and went, wine glasses refilled, and conversations shifted from polite to personal.

Alessandro hadn’t spoken to Isabel once.

But he didn’t need to.

Every brush of cutlery, every shift in his chair, every low murmur in his voice as he answered someone else—it all tugged at her nerves like strings pulled too tight. She felt like a violin about to snap.

Her father, seated diagonally across from her, kept giving her tiny “are you okay?” glances. Isabel offered the same tight, fake smile in response each time.

The tension was suffocating. Her skin burned beneath the soft silk of her dress, and her stomach was too twisted to eat much. The steak in front of her may as well have been rubber.

But what unraveled her completely wasn’t a word.

It was the moment Alessandro’s foot brushed hers under the table.

She jerked slightly, thinking it was a mistake.

But then it came again—intentional this time. A press. Deliberate. Slow.

Her eyes flew to his.

He was still talking to someone on his left, nodding mildly, wine glass in hand, gaze calm as ever. But his leg nudged hers again—this time sliding slightly up her calf.

Isabel’s breath caught. Her fingers curled around her fork.

Her heart thudded so loudly, she barely heard Vivian’s voice drifting beside her. Something about lavender honey and Sicilian figs.

Isabel cleared her throat and reached for her wine. The rim of the glass trembled slightly in her hand.

Then—

Warm fingers brushed her thigh.

Under the table.

Her spine stiffened. She looked towards his direction. Alessandro wasn’t looking at her.

But his hand was moving, slow and calculated, pushing the soft fabric of her dress aside inch by inch until his fingertips found the bare skin above her knee.

Isabel’s breath hitched.

She should have moved.

She didn’t.

His hand stilled, resting there like a secret. Her pulse hammered in her throat, heat coiling in her stomach like smoke.

She was aware of every single person at that table. Vivian, chattering away. Her father, laughing with a mouthful of veal. Guests, pretending not to notice anything. Waiters gliding by with wine.

But all she could feel was his hand—heavy and warm—on her thigh.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t normal.

But it was real. And it was making her dizzy.

She shifted, her leg brushing against his, breath shallow. His thumb moved, barely a stroke over her skin, and her grip on the wine glass faltered.

Clink.

The base of the glass struck the edge of her plate. Wine sloshed inside.

A few heads turned.

“Oops,” she said quickly, forcing a laugh. “Just—slippery hands.”

Alessandro’s hand disappeared instantly. So did his gaze—from her, from the table. He leaned back in his seat and raised his glass again, expression unreadable.

But Isabel could barely sit still. Her skin tingled, her cheeks were flushed, and when she met Vivian’s wide eyes across the table, she knew she had caught at least some of it.

She set her glass down slowly, carefully.

She couldn’t do this.

Not here.

Not again.

The fork slipped from her hand and hit the plate with a sharp clang. She stood too fast, muttered something about needing air, and excused herself from the table.

She didn’t look at Alessandro again.

But she felt it. His eyes on her back.

She made it just past the glass doors leading to the garden when she heard the soft footsteps behind her.

Then came the knock. One soft, deliberate tap against the frame. Immediately she entered the bathroom.

His voice followed.

Low. Controlled.

“Isabel.”