When I listed the riverside marriage home—the one I'd put a $300K down payment on—on a resale site, the agent asked how I could bear to slash the price and take such a loss in such a hurry.

I tugged the corner of my mouth into something like a smile.

"Because of a cashmere throw."

Last night I worked into the small hours over the ledgers, and my stomach flared up. I broke into a cold sweat from the pain right there in the sitting room, so I went to push open the master bedroom door, just to lie down on the bed for a while.

But Lorenzo Marchetti clamped a hand over the door handle, frowning.

"Don't go in. That silk bedding and the cashmere throw are Bianca Russo's favorites. Last time you lay on them they smelled of your perfume, and her insomnia flared up. She was awake the whole night."

He pulled the door shut tight and lowered his voice to coax me.

"Just bear with it. Make do on the couch. Bianca's nerves—she only just came out of recovery. We should be more accommodating."

The sight of him standing guard over the master bedroom cut into me.

All at once this estate, the one I'd spent half a year chasing through warehouses and craftsmen to furnish, felt cold enough to make me shiver.

I didn't grill him the way I usually would. I just turned around in silence and walked toward that couch in the sitting room.

Lorenzo shot me a glance, assumed I was sulking, shook his head as if the matter were beneath him, and went back to his study.

Looking at the confirmation on my phone screen—the appointment to clear the debt-claim, booked—I closed my eyes and drifted off.

This walled house they meant me to enter as the Marchetti bride, I wasn't going to step into it after all.

——

When I woke, my stomach was still cramping.

The sitting room light was still on, and half a glass of cold water sat on the low table.

Lorenzo hadn't gotten me my medicine.

I propped myself up off the couch, the backs of my hands slick with cold sweat.

Light leaked through the gap under the master bedroom door, and white noise drifted out from inside.

It was the rainfall track Bianca always played before sleep.

I made my way over, one hand on the wall.

A little sign hung from the door handle.

Sleeping. Do Not Disturb.

The sign was new.

I'd never bought it.

I pushed the door.

It was locked from the inside.

Lorenzo's voice came from the study.

"Adriana Falcone, leave the door alone."

I turned to look at him.

He was in his pajamas, holding a cup of hot water.

He didn't hand the hot water to me.

He set the cup on the little cabinet outside the master bedroom door.

"Bianca wakes up at night and likes warm water."

I asked, "Where's my stomach medicine?"

He paused.

"I'll buy you some tomorrow."

I opened the medicine box in the entryway.

My stomach medicine was three months expired.

Bianca's sleep aids were sorted into little compartments, each label marked with the date and dosage.

Lorenzo walked over and pressed a hand down on the medicine box.

"Don't go messing with her medicine."

I closed the box.

"When did she put her medicine in here?"

"She just came out of recovery. She needs a stable environment."

"This is the estate meant to seal our union."

His brows knit together.

"Do you really have to nitpick over every little thing? She's only staying a few nights."

I walked toward the guest room.

The moment the door opened, there were the favors for the alliance ceremony, piled inside.

Bianca's easel stood against the wall, and her yoga mat lay on the floor.

"She's staying in the guest room too?"

Lorenzo avoided my eyes.

"Painting helps steady her mood."

I opened my phone.

The broker's quiet estimate popped up, well below what I'd paid to clear the title.

I sat back down on the couch and opened the ledger.

Remaining balance on the debt-claim, the early-clearance terms, the penalty owed—each one laid out clearly.

Lorenzo stood beside me.

"What are you making a fuss about now?"

I didn't look up.

"Checking the accounts."

He sighed.

"Adriana, be more mature. Bianca is sick, you're healthy. Don't fight her over a bed."

My fingers stopped.

Fight her over a bed.

I'd spent half a year chasing through warehouses and craftsmen, overseeing the carpentry, the plumbing and the wiring, the furnishings.

That bed was one I'd settled on only after trying seven different houses.

Under the table, my thumb turned the thin gold ring on my right hand a half-rotation, slow and quiet, the way a debt is decided long before it's collected.

Now he was using the word "take."

I opened the title of blood and ownership.

Holder of record: Adriana Falcone.

Debtor of record: Adriana Falcone.

The transfer records of the down payment sat saved in my private cloud, where no Marchetti hand could reach. The renovation pact was there too, every line clean.

Lorenzo saw the screen, and his face changed.

"What are you digging up all this for?"

I locked the screen.

"Can't sleep."

He dropped his voice low, the way a made man does when he wants a thing buried.

"Don't wake Bianca up."

I glanced at the door of the master bedroom.

That door had someone else's mark hanging on it.

That bed had someone else's throw lying on it.

That room held someone else's pills.

I picked up my phone and messaged Gianna, my fixer.

"This estate. Can you move it fast, and quiet?"

Gianna replied quickly.

"You're sure you can let it go?"

I replied:

"I can."

The white noise behind the master bedroom door paused for a moment.

Lorenzo spun around at once and knocked, soft as a man at a confessional.

"Bianca? Are you awake?"

I set my phone face-down on the table.

If the master bedroom of this estate didn't belong to me, then there was no need for this estate to belong to us.

The next morning, I opened the fridge.

My coffee beans were gone.

The yogurt was gone too.

Where the hot sauce used to sit, there was a row of low-sugar oat milk.

A note was stuck to the door.

Bianca can't have caffeine, can't have cold drinks, can't have high sugar.

The hand was Lorenzo's.

He came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Eat light for a while. Bianca can't stand strong smells."

I looked at that bowl of porridge.

Last night my stomach hurt, doubled me over on the couch, and he never asked whether I could even eat.

Now he remembered that Bianca couldn't stand smells.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm not eating."

Lorenzo frowned.

"Acting up again? You're going to put on a face over one breakfast?"

I changed into my shoes.

"Save it for coaxing her."

His voice sank.

"Adriana, don't talk so ugly."

I went to the walk-in closet.

The main rack held Bianca's beige coat, her nightgown, her shawl, hung like the wardrobe of a woman who already owned the place. My garment bag had been shoved out to the balcony, the bottom of it dusted with grime.

I picked up my gown, the one meant for the alliance ceremony.

Lorenzo followed me in.

"She gets anxious when her things are left outside. Don't read into it."

"And my gowns on the balcony, that doesn't make anyone anxious?"

He pressed his lips together.

"You really have to compete with a sick person?"

My phone buzzed.

A message dropped into the Marchetti family council.

Carmela Marchetti had sent a voice note.

"Lorenzo, how did Bianca sleep last night? Don't let Adriana go into the master bedroom and bother her. A sick person can't take that kind of trouble."

Lorenzo replied:

"Don't worry, I've got it handled."

Carmela sent another:

"Adriana's capable. A few days of swallowing it won't hurt her. After the union we'll all be one famiglia."

No one asked where I'd slept last night.

No one asked whether my stomach had stopped hurting.

I screenshotted the council messages, building the ledger of debts paid.

Lorenzo saw it, and his expression soured.

"What are you screenshotting for?"

"A keepsake."

He reached out for my phone.

I stepped back half a pace.

"Don't touch it."

His hand stopped in midair, and his thumb pressed against the bare base of his ring finger, feeling for an authority that wasn't there.

"Adriana, why are you so prickly these days?"

I put the gown back into its bag.

"Your famiglia talks far pricklier. I'm a slow learner."

That morning, I sent word I'd be gone half a day.

I exported the down payment records.

I exported the monthly debt-claim deductions.

I exported the renovation invoices.

I exported the estate fees, the appliance orders, the furnishings list.

In the spreadsheet, Lorenzo had only wired a few scattered payments against the debt. Among the furniture, only the television and the dining table had passed through his card.

I messaged Francesca Lombardi, my Consigliere.

"Help me look at a pre-union property settlement."

She said:

"You finally woke up?"

I turned the thin gold ring on my right hand a half-rotation with my thumb, and replied:

"Cut the chatter. Run the numbers."

Francesca sent a single line.

"The deed sits in your name, your evidence is complete. Don't go soft."

Lorenzo came to the estate at noon.

He handed me a glass of warm water.

"I was too worked up last night. This weekend I'll take you to look at rings to seal the union."

I looked at the glass.

Bianca's water-temperature label was still stuck to the bottom.

One hundred thirteen degrees.

I didn't take it.

His phone buzzed.

A voice message from Bianca.

"Lorenzo, the throw is a little damp. I can't sleep."

Lorenzo picked up his car keys.

"I'll run to the cleaner and ask. Be right back."

I asked,

"What about the rings?"

He stood in the doorway, the doorway of the house my family's clean money had bought.

"That's not urgent."

I lowered my head and submitted the early-repayment request to clear the debt-claim against the estate.

A confirmation surfaced on the screen.

I turned the thin gold ring on my right hand a half-rotation with my thumb. Then I tapped confirm.

He was busy protecting a throw.

I was busy dismantling a blood-bound home.

Lorenzo agreed to come with me to the hotel for the menu tasting.

I'd booked the time two weeks in advance.

His parents had foods they avoided, and I'd noted it three times. In a Marchetti household, a slighted matriarch at the table was its own kind of bloodletting.

Before we left, he got a call from Bianca.

She said she didn't dare go to her doctor's follow-up alone.

Lorenzo glanced at me.

"You go ahead. I'll take her to the follow-up and catch up to you after."

I picked up the car keys.

"Fine."

He let out a breath.

"Adriana, I knew you'd understand."

I didn't answer that.

The hotel manager brought out the seating chart for the alliance ceremony.

There was an extra name beside the head table.

Bianca Russo.

The notes were very detailed.

Away from the speakers.

Away from the lights.

Close to the lounge.

So Mr. Marchetti could look after her.

I held the pen.

"Who changed this?"

The manager glanced at his screen.

"Mr. Marchetti called to confirm last night."

I set the pen down.

"The head table is where the parents of both bloodlines sit."

The manager gave an awkward little smile.

"Mr. Marchetti said Miss Russo's situation is special."

Half an hour later, Lorenzo arrived.

Bianca trailed behind him.

She had that cashmere throw draped over her, a folder of medical records pinched in her hand, the way another woman might carry a passport into hostile territory.

"Adriana, should I not have come?"

I looked at Lorenzo.

He stepped in front of her.

"She's adjusting to the venue ahead of time, so nothing goes wrong on the day."

I asked,

"My ceremony. Who approved her getting used to it?"

Bianca's eyes reddened. Her gaze flicked once, fast and dry, to see whether it had landed.

Lorenzo's face darkened.

"Don't take it out on her. She can't handle a single harsh word."

I opened the menu.

"Then don't come."

The tasting began.

The first dish, a fish, came out.

Bianca covered her mouth.

"It's fishy."

Lorenzo immediately called the manager.

"Swap this one out."

The second course, a soup, was brought over.

She frowned.

"Too strong."

Lorenzo said,

"Swap that too."

The manager looked at me.

I pushed the menu across.

"Do whatever Mr. Marchetti says."

The music was cued up for a test.

It was the warm-up song I'd chosen.

Bianca bowed her head and clutched the throw.

"That sound presses down on me. I can't breathe."

Lorenzo turned.

"Change it to white-noise piano music."

I looked at him.

"Are the guests coming to an alliance ceremony, or coming to sleep?"

He kept his voice low.

"Adriana, the ceremony is just a formality. Bianca can't be triggered."

I asked,

"And me?"

He paused.

"You've always been the stronger one."

That line landed on the table like a glass set down too deliberately in a silent room.

I closed the folder.

Bianca spoke up softly.

"Maybe I just won't come, so the two of you don't fight."

Lorenzo instantly gripped her wrist.

"No one's telling you to leave."

I saw his hand clearly.

Only then did he catch himself and let go. His thumb dragged once across the empty base of his ring finger before it fell to his side.