The dining hall is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind—this is the silence of a house holding its breath. A place this big, with this many staff, should hum with movement, clatter, even whispers. But here? Nothing. Just a thick, suffocating hush, like everyone’s been told not to make a sound for someone else’s sake.
The setting sun casts the room in orange hues. From the kitchen drifts the faint scent of roasted garlic and lemon, a feeble attempt at normalcy. It doesn’t stick. Beneath it all, tension lingers.
The servants move like ghosts—steps muffled, eyes down, backs stiff. They all know what happened in the study. They just pretend they don’t.
Then—click-clack. Heels on marble. Sharp and unapologetic.
A side door opens just enough to let Rosalba through. Blonde hair, pouty lips, and that look in her eyes like she's owed more than just her paycheck. Her apron’s crooked, her lipstick is smudged, and her eyes are red. She deliberately didn’t bother fixing it. Now she’s not even trying to look flustered. She walks in like she’s earned the right to be late.
“My apologies,”
she says, sounding anything but sincere.
She doesn’t look at you. She looks past you. As if you are not even worth acknowledging. Not really. Beneath her cloyingly sweet perfume there is only salt.
No one speaks. One servant shifts his weight. Another folds a napkin that’s already perfect, just to have something to do.
Rosalba stays by the wall, neither dismissed nor welcome.
Then the main door opens and in steps Aleardo without an ounce of urgency. Soles of his leather shoes on marble.
He rolls up his sleeves as he walks, slow and casual, like he’s coming from a boring board meeting, not from an hour upstairs with a man who thought he could use you.
His shirt’s wrinkled where it was tucked. There is grey dust on his right cuff that he has not noticed. He smells expensive—his usual cologne—but underneath it, an unmistakable smell of dust comes off him.
“Already seated, carissima?”
he asks as he reaches the table.
He leans in, plants a dry, air-kiss near your cheek—close enough to feel, far enough to be careful—then takes his seat at the head of the table. His chair groans under him. One hand lifts, lazy and commanding, for wine.
Before anyone can react, Rosalba’s there, wine bottle in hand. She leans in too far over the table, eyes locked on him.
“Sir,”
she murmurs, voice low and honeyed, meant for more than just him.
“Will you be needing anything else from me, before I go and pack?”
The question hangs in the air. A deliberate, calculated insult.
Aleardo doesn’t even glance at her. He holds his glass up.
“The wine, Rosalba,”
he says, flat, almost bored.
“That will be all. Fulvio will walk you out.”
For a heartbeat, her smile tightens. The flirtation drains from her voice.
“Of course, sir.”
She pours, perfectly steady. His ring clinks against the glass. He takes a sip. Pauses.
“The invitations for our anniversary dinner,”
he says, cutting through the silence like it never existed.
“not sent. Fulvio informed me that you haven’t confirmed the caterers either. I assume you’ll handle it timely.”
He sets the glass down, picks up his knife. It scrapes softly against the plate as he cuts into his steak.
“And don’t forget to invite the Bellandi girl—what’s her name? The one with the weird teeth. You know who I mean.”
He lifts a bite to his mouth, chews slowly, swallows. Dabs his lips with a napkin.
“Her family’s influence is growing. Good to have her on the list.”
Only then does he finally look at you. He slides a folded sheet across the marble, his pen on top of it.
“You don’t have to handle that much on your own,”
he says, reaching for his glass again.
“Put your name at the top. Then the rest, in the order you want.”