"She's fragile," Giorgio said finally, as though that single word could justify everything. "The Family doesn't want her... affected."
"I understand." I kept my voice carefully neutral. "You care about her."
The words fell between us like a body into deep water. No splash. But the weight of them sank all the same.
He attempted to redirect, reaching for something on the nightstand. "This is for you."
A small bundle of white flowers—calla lilies, their stems wrapped in black ribbon, trimmed with the precision of someone who had been taught that presentation mattered more than sincerity.
I glanced at them without moving. "Where did you get them?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does." I pushed myself up against the carved headboard, the silk of my nightgown whispering against the sheets. "If they're for me, then she doesn't need them."
His denial came swift and practiced. "You're my promised bride. She's merely family—blood of the same house."
"Then keep them for her." I turned my face toward the window, where moonlight bled through the heavy drapes. "She'll appreciate them more than I ever could."