Chapter Five – Fractures in Marble

The De Luca mansion woke slowly, like a beast after feeding.

The echoes of last night’s dinner still hung in the air — laughter turned brittle, whispered gossip drifting through marble halls.

Isabella stirred at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A shaft of morning light slipped through the curtains, pale and cold, cutting across the silk sheets. The other side of the bed was empty, untouched.

It always was.

She sat up, the ache in her chest familiar, dull. Another day. Another performance.

Downstairs, voices murmured — staff moving carefully, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts that lived between these walls. She caught the faint clink of china, the slow drawl of Caterina’s voice ordering breakfast, the sharp edge of control in every syllable.

It was strange how a house could feel so alive and yet so dead.

Isabella rose, pulling her robe tight around her frame, and glanced at herself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was one she barely recognized — pale skin, tired eyes, lips pressed too tightly together. She’d learned to hide emotion the way others hid scars.

But she could still feel the humiliation from last night, raw and sharp beneath the surface.

Caterina’s voice — “Fetch the bread, dear” — still rang in her ears.

Gianna’s smile — soft, poisonous — still glimmered like a blade behind her eyes.

And Adriano…

She swallowed hard.

He hadn’t defended her. He hadn’t even looked at her when Gianna spun her story — when Isabella had been reduced to a jealous fool before all their guests.

He had simply watched.

And that hurt more than any insult ever could.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” she murmured, smoothing her hair automatically.

It was Marta, one of the housemaids — a small, nervous woman who always avoided meeting Isabella’s gaze. “Mrs. De Luca,” she said softly, “Mrs. Caterina requests your presence in the sunroom. She says it’s urgent.”

Of course she does.

“Thank you,” Isabella replied, her voice even.

She dressed quickly, choosing one of the simpler dresses Caterina approved of — beige, modest, forgettable. The kind that made her blend into the background, just as Caterina liked.

The sunroom lived up to its name — walls of glass overlooking the gardens, sunlight spilling across the polished floor. Caterina sat at the far end, reading the newspaper, her pearls gleaming against her dark dress.

“Good morning, cara,” she said without looking up. “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t aware we had a time set,” Isabella answered, taking a seat opposite her.

Caterina finally lifted her eyes, offering a smile that didn’t touch them. “A proper wife should always be prepared, even when she isn’t summoned. You never know when your husband might need you.”

It was a lesson, not a conversation.

“Yes, Mrs. De Luca,” Isabella said quietly.

Caterina folded the paper neatly and poured herself coffee. “Last night was… embarrassing. You made quite the spectacle. Our guests are not accustomed to seeing such displays.”

“Gianna provoked me,” Isabella said before she could stop herself.

The older woman’s eyes snapped up, sharp as a hawk’s. “And yet you allowed it. A De Luca does not get provoked, Isabella. She controls the room — not the other way around.”

“I’m not a De Luca,” Isabella said under her breath.

Caterina’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. “No, my dear. You are not.”

The words landed like a slap, but Isabella didn’t flinch. She’d learned not to.

“Adriano will handle this matter,” Caterina continued. “In the meantime, you will make amends. Send flowers to Gianna. Something tasteful. Apologize for your outburst. It will show humility.”

“Humility,” Isabella repeated, almost choking on the word.

Caterina tilted her head. “It’s a virtue you might learn, cara. You carry the Romano name — it would serve you well to remember that some stains cannot be washed clean, but they can be managed with grace.”

She rose gracefully, ending the conversation as she always did — on her terms.

When she left, Isabella sat frozen, staring at the empty cup in front of her. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, the porcelain cold against her skin.

It would’ve been easier if she could hate them all completely. But there were cracks — tiny, treacherous cracks — where emotion still lived.

“Is she gone?”

Isabella turned at the voice. Fran leaned against the doorway, barefoot, her hair tied in a loose braid. She wore one of Adriano’s old shirts over leggings, looking far too casual for this mausoleum of rules.

“Fran,” Isabella said, managing a faint smile. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that. If your mother—”

“—hears?” Fran grinned. “Then maybe she’ll remember I’m not twelve.” She walked over, plucking the untouched cup from Isabella’s hand. “You need stronger coffee than this.”

Fran poured a second cup from the pot, added too much sugar, and handed it back. Isabella took it without protest.

For a moment, silence settled between them — soft, not heavy.

“You handled last night better than most would’ve,” Fran said eventually, her tone quieter.

“Did I?”

“You didn’t throw the wine in Gianna’s face. That counts as restraint in this family.”

Isabella gave a short laugh — the first real sound of amusement she’d made in weeks. “I considered it.”

“I would’ve cheered you on.”

Fran’s eyes twinkled, but there was something else behind them — something sadder, older. She reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Isabella’s face. “Don’t let them break you, bella mia. They thrive on cracks.”

“I’m not sure I have much left to break,” Isabella whispered.

Fran studied her for a long moment, then smiled again — softer this time. “That’s what you think.”

The warmth of the words lingered long after Fran left.

Isabella sat there, staring at the garden beyond the glass. Caterina’s roses bloomed in perfect rows, each one trimmed, perfect, controlled. Not a single petal dared grow out of place.

She understood the symbolism all too well.

But beneath every garden, there were roots — wild, tangled, unstoppable.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time something started growing beyond the marble.