The mansion woke in silence, but not the silence of peace. It was the disciplined hush of a house run by shadows and routine, where footsteps on marble were measured, and even the servants’ whispers carried the weight of surveillance. Isabella had come to know its rhythms: the faint clatter of trays in the kitchen before dawn, the slow sweep of brooms down the halls, the murmured greetings that always died on tongues when she appeared. Maria had already set out her breakfast, though Isabella doubted the housekeeper expected her to eat much. A porcelain cup of coffee steamed gently, and beside it, a plate of bread and fruit she rarely touched. Maria’s gaze, however, lingered in that way it often did—piercing, disapproving, half maternal and half warning. “Busy day,” Maria said simply, adjusting the silver tray. Isabella nodded, lifting the cup with steady hands. “Always.” The truth, of course, was that her days belonged to others. To the Morettis. To Damian. To the invisible
Last Updated : 2025-09-28
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