When General Alessandro D'Este returned, Otilla D'Este did not act in anger.
Anger was for people without options.
She sat across from her father at breakfast the next morning, sunlight pouring through the tall windows, turning everything gold—softening edges, disguising power.
General Alessandro D'Este read the paper, untouched espresso cooling beside him.
"Papa," Otilla said casually, spreading jam on her toast, "do you ever feel that discipline is… slipping?"
Her father did not look up. "In what sense?"
"The guards," she continued lightly. "Some of them are getting… familiar. Chatting. Lingering."
A pause.
The paper lowered slightly.
"Name," the General said.
Otilla smiled inwardly.
She hadn't even needed to offer it.
"Sergeant Hernandez," she said. "He's capable, but perhaps too comfortable."
Her father studied her then, sharp eyes missing nothing. "Has he disobeyed orders?"
"No," Otilla said smoothly. "Not yet."
The paper rose again.
"I'll speak to the captain," the General said. "Complacency spreads if it isn't cut early."
Otilla sipped her coffee.
Bitter. Perfect.
Xavier noticed the change immediately.
It was subtle—almost nothing.
An extra inspection.
A captain watching him too closely.
A note in his file he wasn't allowed to read.
By the third day, he understood.
Someone was watching.
When Isabella arrived that afternoon, he didn't meet her at the gate.
Another guard did.
She waited longer than usual.
When Xavier finally appeared, his posture was rigid, his voice clipped.
"You shouldn't linger," he said quickly, taking the box.
Isabella blinked. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he said. Too fast. "Its just—today isn't a good day."
She nodded, masking the sting with politeness. "Of course."
She turned to leave.
"Isabella," he said quietly.
She stopped.
"I'm sorry," he added, meaning far more than the words suggested.
She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled gently.
"I know."
And that broke something in him.
Otilla watched from the balcony above.
She hadn't expected the guilt.
It pleased her.
That evening, she summoned Xavier to the study.
He stood at attention, heart pounding.
"Relax," Otilla said, reclining in her chair. "This isn't official."
"Yes, miss."
She stood and circled him slowly.
"You're a good soldier," she said. "Hardworking. Reliable."
"Thank you, miss."
"But soldiers forget themselves sometimes," she continued. "They imagine things that don't belong to them."
He said nothing.
"I like you here, Xavier," Otilla said softly. "It would be unfortunate if my father decided otherwise."
Her hand brushed his sleeve.
A warning. Not a touch.
"I don't imagine things, miss," he said carefully.
Otilla smiled.
"Good," she replied. "Then we understand each other."
She stepped back.
"You're dismissed."
As he left, Otilla's smile faded.
Understanding was not enough.
Next, she would ensure loss.
Because people who had never lost anything always needed to be taught how it felt.