The breakfast was untouched.
Alessia sat in silence, the porcelain cup trembling slightly in her hand. The food looked beautiful—berries arranged like jewels, toast cut with precision—but it felt like a performance. A trap dressed in civility.
Across the table, the man who had brought her here sat with perfect posture, sipping espresso like time didn't touch him.
She couldn't take it anymore.
"I need air," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't stop her.
Didn't ask where she was going.
Just watched.
Alessia rose, her robe brushing against the velvet chair, and walked out of the dining hall. The corridors were long and silent, lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her. She didn't know this place. She didn't know him. But she knew she had to get out—if only for a moment.
She found a door at the end of the hall. Heavy. Ornate. It opened with a soft groan.
Outside, the garden was wrapped in mist. The air was damp and earthy, the scent of roses and rain clinging to her skin.
She walked slowly, past a lion-shaped fountain, past statues that stared into nothing, until she reached a bench beneath a willow tree.
She sat.
And the tears came.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just quiet sobs that slipped through the cracks in her chest. For the wedding that never happened. For the road that changed everything. For the man inside who knew too much and said too little.
Behind her, the manor loomed like a cathedral of secrets.
And somewhere inside, he watched.
She had left the table. But she hadn't left the game.