The storm has softened outside, but the villa hums with lingering energy. Rain trickles along the edges of the terrace, tapping softly against the roof like a hypnotic drum. Inside, the hall is quiet now — not empty, but lulled, as if the storm's fury has seeped into the walls themselves. Candles flicker, sending shadows that stretch across the gilded furniture, bending and twisting like living things.
Isabella lounges in a high-backed velvet chair, one leg draped over the arm, a glass of wine in her hand. She hums softly, absent-mindedly swirling the ruby liquid, watching it catch the candlelight. Her mind drifts — not to Marco, not to the villagers, not even to the storm — but to the endless threads of her own successes, her debts, the bitter missteps of others she has buried beneath her empire. She smiles faintly, a little to herself, a little to the invisible ghosts in the room.
Meanwhile, Marco paces near the fireplace, hands deep in pockets, eyes flicking to the window. He murmurs words no one hears, plotting, scheming quietly under the guise of celebration. He pauses, listening to the faint creak of floorboards in the next room — servants scurrying to tidy, to check on the flickering lanterns, to keep order while the storm dies outside. His lips twitch.
A sudden clatter comes from the servants' quarters. Marta, the housekeeper, mutters complaints under her breath. "Why do they leave their things everywhere? I swear, these masters would have me drowning in wine before they lift a finger!" She stomps across the floor, knocking into a broom, which topples. She sighs, rubbing her temple, but her eyes sparkle with quiet defiance — the small victories of those who serve yet watch the powerful dance oblivious to reality.
In the kitchen, Pietro, the chef, fusses over a tray of desserts, muttering to himself. "If they spill another glass of wine on these pastries, I'll—" He shakes his head, then laughs quietly. "Ah, but the look on Marco's face when Isabella gossips about her rivals? Worth every soggy tart." He picks up a custard tart, inspecting it, and shakes his finger at it as if it were alive. "You'd better survive the night, little one."
Outside, the storm leaves the air damp but eerily still. Rain drips from the roof in slow, deliberate beads. The wind sighs through broken shutters. The world seems suspended in a pause between moments, like the calm that follows a scream but precedes the echo. Marco moves closer to Isabella, leaning on the mantle, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Do you feel it?" he asks, voice low. She tilts her head, one eyebrow raised.
"Feel what?" she asks, though she already knows the tension, the undercurrent in the villa tonight. Her instincts tell her nothing is quite as it seems. Marco smiles, but it is casual, harmless — a mask. She does not know the storm he carries within, the quiet plotting beneath his laughter.
Meanwhile, in the servant's quarters, whispers begin — harmless, at first. Two maids exchange gossip about a mysterious visitor they saw in town days ago. They speculate about secrets and rumors, weaving threads of story between each other, oblivious to the larger chaos. A laugh escapes one — a soft, nervous giggle — and the other shushes her, glancing toward the grand hall, where the masters lounge in oblivion.
The shadows flicker again. Candlelight bends over gilded mirrors and polished surfaces. Isabella swirls her wine, lips brushing the rim of the glass, lost in thought. Marco leans closer, murmuring something about future conquests, and she smiles, unaware. The tension lingers, subtle, like the whisper of silk brushing against skin.
Outside, the village murmurs. The floodwaters have receded slightly, leaving mud, debris, and fear in their wake. The wind carries distant cries, faint, almost unnoticed, yet enough to prick at the corners of the mind. Inside, the villa seems untouched, serene — but the unease coils, waiting.
The servants clean, the masters drink and laugh, and the villa breathes, alive with anticipation, secrets, and shadows. A cat slinks across the floor, tail flicking, ears twitching, pausing to stare into an empty corner as if sensing something hidden.
And in the silence, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the floorboards — a warning, a whisper, a reminder that nothing, not even celebration, exists in perfect isolation.
The night stretches. The storm fades. But the villa — and the shadow of what is to come — waits, patient and unrelenting.
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