chapter 4 : sweet lies , bitter truth

The Night: A Slip of the Mask

The silence of the Lake Como villa was heavy, broken only by the distant lap of water against the stone dock. Eimi lay on the very edge of the king-sized bed, her breathing finally slowing into the rhythmic pattern of deep sleep. In her dreams, she wasn't in a cold Italian fortress; she was back home, safe, clutching the giant teddy bear she had owned since she was a child.

Unconsciously, seeking warmth in the chilly lake air, Eimi rolled over. Her arms reached out, finding a solid, warm form. She pulled herself closer, tucking her head against a broad shoulder and wrapping her arms tightly around Marco's chest, just as she would her favorite pillow.

Marco, who had been staring at the ceiling in a restless trance, froze.

His heart didn't just beat; it thudded painfully against his ribs. The "machine" that was Marco Moretti suddenly malfunctioned. Eimi's hair, smelling of jasmine and expensive shampoo, was fanned across his neck. She was soft—dangerously soft—and in her sleep, the frown of hatred she usually wore had vanished, replaced by a look of pure, innocent peace.

Marco's hand hovered over her shoulder. He should push her away. He should wake her up and remind her of "Rule Number One." But the words of the contract felt hollow in the dark. Instead, he found himself holding his breath, terrified that even a slight movement would wake her and bring back the biting insults.

He looked down at her face in the pale moonlight. For a moment, his icy blue eyes softened. She's just a girl trying to save her world, he thought. A strange, protective ache pulled at his chest—a feeling he had never permitted himself to have for anyone. He didn't move an inch, staying trapped in her embrace until his own eyes finally closed.

The Morning: The Mask Returns

The morning sun hit the room with a brutal brightness. Marco was the first to wake. The softness of the night was gone, replaced by the cold reality of the deal. He looked down and saw Eimi still tangled around him like a vine.

Panic flared in him—not because she was there, but because of how much he had enjoyed it.

"Wake up!" Marco barked, abruptly pulling his arm away and shifting to the side.

Eimi gasped, tumbling slightly as the support of his body vanished. She rubbed her eyes, looking disoriented. "What... what happened?"

"What happened is that you lack basic boundaries," Marco snapped, standing up and pulling on his silk robe. He looked at her with a look of pure, practiced disdain. "You spent the night clinging to me like a stray cat. If you're that desperate for affection, buy a dog. Don't touch me again."

Eimi's face turned bright red. "I—I did what? I would never! I must have thought you were a pillow. A very hard, uncomfortable, overpriced pillow!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Marco lied, his own heart still racing from the memory of her touch. "Get dressed. My grandfather is downstairs. If you look this messy, he'll think I've been mistreating you, and I don't need the lecture."

The Breakfast: The Lion's Inspection

They descended the marble staircase ten minutes later, looking like the picture-perfect couple. Marco had his arm firmly—perhaps a bit too firmly—around Eimi's waist.

In the sun-drenched breakfast room, Lorenzo Moretti sat at the head of a table spread with blood oranges, pastries, and strong espresso. He looked up from his newspaper, his sharp eyes darting between Marco's cold face and Eimi's flushed cheeks.

"Good morning, children," Lorenzo said, his voice like sandpaper. "You look... tired. I trust the room was to your liking?"

"It was efficient, Grandfather," Marco said, pulling out a chair for Eimi with a stiff, robotic gallantry.

"Efficient?" Lorenzo chuckled, a dark sound. "Marriage isn't a factory, Marco. It's a garden. Eimi, my dear, you look lovely, but you've barely touched your coffee. Is my grandson being his usual, charmingly wooden self?"

Eimi felt Marco's fingers dig slightly into her side—a warning. She forced a bright, porcelain smile. "Not at all, Mr. Moretti. Marco was just... making sure I felt at home. He's very attentive in private."

Lorenzo leaned forward, resting his chin on his cane. "Is that so? Because I noticed there was no music coming from the suite last night. No laughter. Just silence."

He slammed his hand on the table, making the silver spoons rattle. "I didn't pay billions to buy my son a business partner. I want to see a spark! If I don't see some genuine affection by the end of this breakfast, I might have to reconsider the next payment to your father's creditors."

Marco's jaw tightened so hard a vein became visible in his temple. He turned to Eimi, his eyes screaming a command.

Before Eimi could react, Marco leaned over, picked up a strawberry, and held it to her lips. "Forgive us, Grandfather. We are simply shy in front of you." He looked at Eimi, his voice dropping to a low, husky growl. "Aren't we, tesoro?"

Eimi looked at the strawberry, then at the predator-like eyes of the old man watching them. She realized then: the contract was the easy part. Living through the lies was going to be the real war.

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