Luca became a fixture in my days—annoyingly reliable, always there, like a shadow with an opinion.

In the war room, I’d feel him before I saw him. He never hovered, but he stood close enough that his presence anchored me. Like some smug bodyguard who didn’t want the job but took it anyway. During training, his gaze was sharper than any blade, watching every move I made—not to judge, but to challenge. And at briefings? His chair was glued next to mine. No one even bothered to comment anymore.

People had stopped pretending.

The guards glanced too long. Advisors whispered. Even the kitchen staff shot looks when they thought I wasn’t watching. We weren’t subtle. But I didn’t care.

Not when he looked at me like I wasn’t some forgotten wife but a threat. Not when he stood close enough that I could hear his breath shift before he spoke, like even silence was something we shared.

One morning, I was trapped in the secondary study, pretending to care about etiquette while flipping through a political manual I could recite in my sleep. Sunlight poured through the windows, but the air felt stiff—probably because my tutor was hovering like a judgmental vulture.

“They’re talking,” she said eventually, with all the grace of someone trying to sound concerned but really just fishing for gossip.

I didn’t look up. I turned to another page like she didn’t exist.

“About you,” she added, “and Signor Venturo.”

I met her gaze, deadpan. “Let them,” I said flatly.

She hesitated. “They’re saying—”

Snap. I closed the book. “Let them talk now that I’m everything.”

That shut her up. For once.

From the doorway came the sound of leather sliding against stone.

Luca leaned there, smug as sin, arms crossed, eyebrow arched like he’d been listening the whole time.

“Careful,” he said. “Your sarcasm is showing.”

“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “What a scandal.”

We had lunch in the courtyard that day, tucked away from sharp eyes and colder conversations.

Just the two of us.

The ivy-covered walls made the space feel like it had been forgotten by time—maybe on purpose. It was quieter here. Not empty. Just… calmer. Like we didn’t have to play anyone but ourselves.

Our meals were simple: bread, olives, lemon water, meat—but Luca was not simple. His company was the kind that stirred something beneath the surface, something warm and frustrating.

He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t flatter. He just asked real questions like he was genuinely curious, not digging for weakness.

“What did you dream of before all this?” he asked one day, tearing a piece of bread with rough fingers.

I paused. “Before they gave me a name I was supposed to disappear behind?”

He nodded.

I shrugged. “I wanted to build something. Something no one could take from me.”

He didn’t smile, but his expression softened. “You’re already doing it.”

Later, we played chess under the arches. The game was quiet—every move, a conversation we weren’t saying out loud.

At one point, I reached for his knight, just a beat too late. He caught my wrist. His touch was warm, not forceful. Just there.

“You cheat,” I said, raising a brow.

He smirked. “I win.”

I didn’t pull back. Neither did he.

I moved my queen with my other hand. “We’ll see.”

***

Sometimes, he trained me like he wanted to break me. No praise, no mercy.

“Again,” he said, after I missed the blade mark.

“I’m tired.”

He stepped behind me, close enough that his breath hit my ear.

“So are your enemies,” he murmured. “Again.”

His hands adjusted my grip, corrected my stance with irritating precision.

“Aim for the pulse,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate.”

This time, I hit the mark. Dead center.

His breath lingered against the back of my neck.

“I never miss when you’re this close,” I muttered, too soft to be brave, too loud to be ignored.

He chuckled, stepping back. “Good. Because neither do I.”

“You always touch like you expect me to flinch,” I said.

He raised a brow. “You always talk like you want me to get the wrong idea.”

I tilted my head. “Then why don’t you?”

His lips curved. “Because lying would be easier than admitting what I actually want.”

***

And then there were the flowers.

They started showing up on my windowsill. No names. No notes. Just one bloom. Always fresh. Always different. A lily. A white rose. Once, a blue hyacinth.

I never asked. He never admitted. That was how we worked.

Quiet. Unspoken. Steady.