I dream of dancing, but not with Lucius this time.
There's no grand hall or chandeliers, no cold gaze piercing through me or strong hand bruising my ribs while the whole room watches. Nothing so ostentatious or performative.
No… this is a long time ago.
I'm in the villa's library, probably around eleven years old. Warm sunlight is filtering through the tall windows, casting the entire memory in a comfortable orange glow.
My mother was voicing a rhythm, and my father was humming along, terribly off-key. They're both laughing as I stumble over my mother's feet while she tries to teach me to dance.
I was too frustrated to join in on their fun at the time.
"I can't do it!" I had whined, ready to quit. "I don't like dancing. This is stupid."
"You can do it," my father said with a warm smile, scooping me up like it was the easiest thing in the world. He set me down on his polished shoes and gathered my hands into his big, calloused ones. "You just need a taller partner! Your mom is too short."
I giggled, and my mother chuckled along with me. Her laughter was the kind of sound that made you feel at home; warm and soft, filling your chest.
In the doorway stood Rocco, who was skinny and awkward at the time. He was a dorky-looking teenager back then, but his personality was the same.
My mother beckoned him, teasing, "One day she'll need a partner when we're not here! Come give her a dance, Rocco."
Rocco flushed, and his eyes widened. "I'm… I'm a guard, not a dancer… I don't…"
My father twirled me around like I was the princess in a fairytale, and declared, "Then she'll just have to keep stepping on mine! Forever."
"Forever?" I echoed with another laugh.
"Always!" He nodded.
That evening, I had so much fun that I laughed until I cried. My mother kissed the tears from my cheeks and whispered, "Dancing is just steps, Lia. What matters most is your partner."
My memory blurs, and the rhythm fades. When I open my eyes, I'm lying in my bed, left with nothing but the ghost of Lucius Ravelle's hands on my wrist and waist. I swear I can still feel his breath in my ear as he asked me who would die first.
——
Since my past doesn't want to leave me alone, I decide not to go back to sleep. The dream was pleasant, but it left a painful ache in my chest that I don't want to deal with. It's around five in the morning, probably. I open my window slightly, allowing the breeze to carry in the fresh scent of rain.
Once I have a nice draft circulating to air out the stuffiness of my bedroom, I walk to my vanity to prepare for the day. My dress from the night before is draped over my chair, and when I inspect myself in the mirror, I sigh.
I don't look nearly sad enough for someone who failed a mission for the first time and is being forced to seduce someone as part of an assassination plan. My eyes aren't puffy, and my brown hair is smooth—I suppose my pleasant memories make for good rest, but painful waking.
Wait… what's that?
There's a small velvet box sitting where my jewelry case should be—but I know I didn't leave it there. I don't touch it at first, skeptical of its contents, but curiosity is a sickness and I've never been immune.
I step forward and open it. Diamond earrings, far bigger than any that I've ever bought—perhaps ever seen—in my life. They're dangling from a thin, rose-gold chain. These earrings would catch every single eye in a room if I wore them, that's a guarantee.
There's a note inside the box, with only four words written on it. The handwriting is abysmal, and I can barely read it, but I'm able to make out what it says.
'Wear these for me.'
I slam the lid shut, pulse stuttering. Not only had he stolen my earring, but he also decided to replace it? Well… replace isn't exactly the right word, but it's all I can think of.
A… a claim.
I swallow uncomfortably as I recall the events of last night—the press of his lips to my hand, and the mischievous lift of his glass when he knew I'd noticed the missing earring.
How did the box get in here? Someone had to have snuck into my room to plant it, because I know any direct gift left for me with the family would be immediately discarded or taken by my uncle for inspection.
I should throw the box out the window, smash the diamonds into dust, and call Alessandro to hand it over like evidence.
…But I don't. Instead, I tuck it into the bottom drawer and close it with conviction. I won't do anything with them. I'll return them the next time I see him, and get back the damn pearl he stole from me.
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts, followed by Rocco's flat, emotionless voice, "Report at noon. Alessandro wants you at the long table."
"Fine."
The door doesn't open, but I can hear him shift slightly. "…Ophelia?"
I furrow my brows. He doesn't usually call me by name. "What?"
"Be careful."
I have to stop myself from laughing. Careful? It's cute that he thinks that being careful is still an option in this situation. I'm quite literally flirting with the enemy, who may as well be death himself, in an attempt to get close to him and take his life.
Rocco doesn't wait for an answer before I hear his footsteps recede down the hall. I reopen the drawer against my better judgment and stare at the box, my mind drifting away.
Dancing is just steps, Lia. What matters most is your partner.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips. "What would you and Dad do if you saw who I was dancing with now?"
——
When noon finally rolls around, I've already tucked the diamonds back into their box and locked the drawer. I shouldn't have touched them at all, and I had considered bringing them to the meeting to report as evidence, but… that obviously didn't go well.
When I arrive in the family room, it's thick with smoke and the smell of coffee. Alessandro is sitting at the head of the table with a cigar between his lips and a ledger in his hands. Giancarlo is as silent and irrelevant as ever.
Dante sprawls two chairs down with his feet on the table, his smirk already directed at me. Sofia is sitting at the opposite end, smiling like the snake she is.
"Ophelia," Alessandro takes his cigar and puffs it once, then continues, "You were seen."
"Yes," I answer evenly. "We danced."
Dante scoffs loudly, his voice grating as he drawls, "Ravelle? Dancing? It's news to me that he knows what women are for."
Sofia hums softly, then tilts her head. The perfect display of innocence. "It must have made an impression. I'm sure we'll read about it online soon enough. He rarely allows anyone near, let alone on his arm."
Alessandro finally lifts his gaze, pinning me down with a cold, calculating stare. "Yet he allowed you."
I can tell everyone is waiting for me to stumble, to admit something I shouldn't. I shrug, "Opportunity. He's curious."
"Curiosity," Alessandro echoes, tasting the word on his tongue. He falls silent again, seemingly considering something.
Dante leans forward, a disdainful fire hidden in his smirk. "Yeah, curious how far you'll open your legs to save face."
"At least he's curious about me. No one's ever even thought about you," I smile sweetly.
Sofia's laugh is sharp, and she nods. If there's one thing we have in common, it's our hatred for Dante.
Alessandro silences us with a tap of his finger on the table. His voice is ice, "Enough. The point of this entire ordeal is leverage. By asking you to dance, he danced with you in front of the city. That is quick progress." He leans back, assessing. "Now he'll pursue."
My stomach knots. "What if he doesn't?"
"Make him," Alessandro answers simply. "Seduction is just a stage, not an outcome. Let him believe he's leading, but ensure he follows you. Bring me more than whispers. By our next gathering a week from now, I expect something tangible."
"Tangible?" Dante smirks again. "A shirt button? Maybe a sock? That's all she's good for."
Alessandro ignores him, his eyes remaining on me. "Do you understand, Ophelia?"
"Yes, Uncle," I answer. My tone is even after years of practice hiding my feelings, but I'm masking a fuckton of rage right now.
I want to strangle Alessandro with my bare hands, watch the life leave his eyes… but I can't. Not yet. I have to bide my time and behave until the perfect opportunity strikes.
"Break a heart, cugina," Sofia repeats her words from yesterday. "Preferably his."
I incline my head in a faint nod as I turn to leave. Yes, it would be preferable if I broke his heart… but the problem is that somewhere in that velvet box upstairs, his diamonds are infiltrating mine.