The east wing was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful.
The corridors were too wide, the lights too cold, a camera on every corner. Two bodyguards led the way, Marco behind me. Our footsteps bounced off the marble. The inside of the house felt sterile, like a hospital, but the air carried that invisible thread that makes your muscles tighten without you meaning to.
I didn't ask anything. The anger was still working inside me, but there was nowhere to put it yet. The door we stopped at was double-leafed, heavy, polished dark wood. One of the guards opened it and motioned me in.
The room was enormous, too big, too foreign. Dark curtains covered the window. A sofa sat in one corner. In the middle, a bed that was too white, too neat. Along the walls were dressers with drawers, mirrors, everything arranged with military precision. I thought I'd finally be alone.
I was wrong.
Barely a few minutes passed before the door opened again and a whole group of women and men poured in. White and black clothing. Folders, measuring tapes, garment bags. They moved like every motion had been rehearsed years ago and nobody needed to explain anything.
"Good evening, Signorina Costa," said the middle-aged woman at the front. Her face looked friendly. Her voice was not. "My name is Donata. I'm responsible for preparing your press appearance. Wardrobe, makeup, photography protocol, and color palette. We're assembling everything now. We'll take your measurements immediately."
"What?" I asked. "Now?"
"Now," Donata answered flatly. "Everything must be ready by nine in the morning. Outfit, hair, nails, photo assets. This isn't a request. It's an instruction."
I folded my arms.
"And if I say no?"
"Then we'll be late, and the families' press will notice. I wouldn't recommend it," she said, already gesturing to her assistants. A young woman pulled out a measuring tape and stepped closer.
"Would you stand, please?"
For a moment I didn't move. Then I took a deep breath and stood.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is protocol," Donata said. "The alliance isn't only political. It's representational. The lady must present the right image in the press."
"I understand," I said. "So we're building a living doll for peace."
"Exactly," she nodded. "Now, please, arms to the side."
The measuring tape slid over me. Efficient hands measured my shoulders, waist, hips, the length of my legs, even the circumference of my neck. Someone dictated numbers constantly while someone else wrote them down. The men who carried the garment bags were already spreading out patterns.
"Posture is good," one of them noted. "Skin tone is excellent."
"Her hair is beautiful," another added.
"We're keeping the hair," Donata decided. "We'll only shape it. Light foundation, nothing more. The face stays natural, not painted."
"Thank you, how generous," I said, dripping with sarcasm.
Donata looked up.
"Don't misunderstand me, Signorina. You're naturally beautiful. But this is formality. Here, everything is."
"Of course," I said. "Here, everything is a performance. I get it."
"Good," she replied calmly. "Because it's the only way you survive."
She said it so evenly I couldn't tell whether it was a threat or advice.
They kept working. I stood still. Sometimes my gaze slid to the mirror.
I didn't recognize myself.
My eyes looked tired. My face was set. The woman staring back wasn't the one who'd screamed at her father in the Costa villa that morning. She was a mannequin being measured, adjusted, shaped, to fit the D'Amato name.
When they stepped away from me and placed the garment bags on the sofa, the door opened again. I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. The density of the air shifted as Rafael entered.
Everyone went silent instantly, like his arrival cut the sound off. He scanned the room and stopped by the door.
"How are we doing?" he asked Donata, indifferent.
"Base measurements are done. We'll send the pattern to the workshop tonight. Fitting in the morning."
"Good. She's ready for the press by nine," he said. "No delays."
I let out a mocking snort.
"If you say 'ready' one more time, I swear I'll set your clothes on fire."
He turned toward me.
"Sweetheart, don't. Insurance is expensive."
"Funny," I said. "And I'm guessing you decide when I'm allowed to speak and when I'm not."
"I already decided," he replied. "Right now you're speaking, and you see, I'm allowing it."
"Don't confuse permission with indifference," I shot back. "You're just not used to someone talking back."
He walked closer. The women discreetly drifted backward. He dipped his head until he was looking straight into my eyes, close enough that I could smell that clean, masculine neutrality on his skin. His breath grazed my face.
"I'm curious how long you can keep that tone."
"As long as you're here," I said. "After that I'll normalize."
A half smile touched his mouth.
"You think that's strength?"
"I think it's the only thing I have left."
"It won't last," he said. "People who resist either break, or they learn how to survive quietly."
"Or they blow up the system that cages them," I snapped. "Don't forget that."
He gave a low, tired laugh.
"You really think you're going to change this world?"
"I don't have to change it. I just have to ruin yours."
He weighed me in silence. His eyes stayed cold, but a muscle tightened at the corner of his mouth.
"I think I understand now why your family wanted to get rid of you."
I didn't flinch. I looked back at him slowly, evenly.
"And I understand why nobody in this house loves you."
The air tightened. Donata cleared her throat like she wanted to keep working, but Rafael lifted a hand.
"Continue," he said. "She goes to the press clean and intact."
"Don't worry," I cut in. "I'll even smile for the photos."
"I doubt it," he said, and turned to leave.
At the door he paused and glanced back.
"By the way, your hair is nice. Just don't think it means anything. Your looks are worthless if you're rotten inside."
I didn't answer. I just watched until the door shut behind him.
Donata exhaled slowly and returned to her work.
"I think he's realizing what he's in for," one assistant whispered to another.
"Maybe," Donata replied. "But he'll understand soon. Everyone does here."
I heard them. I said nothing.
I turned back to the mirror. My eyes were green. My stare was cold.
If this house wants to break me, it's going to have a hard time. Because as long as I'm standing, I'm measuring, counting, recording, and when the moment comes, I move.