CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
It began as a dull ache behind her eyes, the kind she had learned to ignore after too many sleepless nights. But one morning, Alessia could barely lift her head from the pillow without the room tilting. The sunlight streaming through the curtains seemed sharper than usual, cutting against her vision until she shut her eyes again. She heard the soft knock before the door opened. Matteo stepped in without waiting for her reply, his footsteps quiet on the carpet.

“You did not come down for breakfast,” he observed, his voice low but threaded with something that almost sounded like reproach.

“I could not,” she murmured. “My head feels… heavy.”

He crossed the room and placed the back of his hand against her forehead. “No fever. Just exhaustion. Your body is telling you to slow down.”

“I have work to do,” she protested weakly.

His hand stayed where it was for a moment longer before he pulled back. “Nothing is more important than your health. And right now, you are running yourself into the ground.”

She wanted to argue, but the moment she shifted upright, a wave of vertigo washed over her. Matteo steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.

“That is exactly what I mean,” he said, picking up a glass from the bedside table. He set it down again and reached into his jacket pocket, producing a small amber bottle. “Take these. They will help.”

“What are they?” she asked, squinting at the label.

“Supplements. Natural. Good for your nervous system.” His tone left no room for refusal.

Alessia hesitated, then took the capsules with a sip of water. She told herself it was not worth fighting over something so small, but a faint unease settled in her stomach all the same.

When she tried to call her assistant later that day, the line rang twice before an automated message informed her the number was unavailable. She tried again with the same result. It was only when she mentioned it to Matteo over lunch that he gave her the news with casual precision.

“I told her to take some time away,” he said, slicing into his food without looking at her. “You have been relying on her too much. Better for you to rest without being pulled into unnecessary tasks.”

“She did not tell me she was leaving.”

“I told her not to. You would only argue.”

It was spoken as if he had done her a kindness.

The days that followed blurred together. The migraine ebbed and returned in unpredictable waves, leaving her disoriented. Matteo took over most of her daily affairs, handling gallery matters, screening calls, deciding who could visit. She began to notice small changes in the villa — another camera in the hallway near her bedroom, a new lock on the east wing doors, the soft red blink of recording devices in rooms that had once felt private.

When she asked about the cameras, he said, “It is for your safety. You have been through enough without adding risk.”

There was no open challenge in his words, but there was no room for negotiation either.

One afternoon she tried to take a walk in the gardens, desperate for fresh air and distance from the constant quiet of the house. Matteo appeared at her side before she reached the gates.

“You should not go outside today,” he said.

“Why?”

“There are reports of strangers near the property. I will not have you exposed to danger.”

She swallowed her reply and turned back toward the house. His hand rested lightly on her back as they walked inside, guiding her without force, but also without question.

By the end of the week, she was no longer sure if the heaviness in her limbs came from her illness or from the weight of being watched. Even in her own bedroom, the shadows seemed to carry eyes. That night, as she lay in bed listening to the quiet hum of the villa, she wondered if the silence was real at all.
By the second evening, Alessia’s migraines had shifted into something stranger. It was no longer just pain behind her eyes. The air in the villa felt thick, and the steady hum of cameras seemed to press against her skull. Even the smallest movements made her dizzy. She sat curled in the armchair of the lounge, the blanket Matteo had given her draped loosely around her shoulders. The firelight danced against the walls, but it felt far away. She had been trying to distract herself by writing again, filling the pages of her journal with fragmented thoughts before they slipped from her mind. She did not notice Matteo enter until he was standing by the doorway. His gaze swept the room and then fixed on her.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

“A little,” she lied, though her skin was pale and her lips dry.

He walked toward her with deliberate calm, settling onto the couch across from her. “You look like you have been thinking too much again.”

Her fingers tightened around the pen. “Matteo, can I ask you something?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Of course.”

“The man hired to work in the archives. Who is he really?”

His eyes did not move from hers. There was no flicker of surprise, only the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“He is an archivist. Nothing more.”

“That is all?” she pressed.

“That is all you need to know.” His tone carried an edge now, soft but unyielding. “You cannot trust anyone outside this house, Alessia. Not in times like these.”

The finality in his voice cut through the air like a locked door. She felt it settle in her chest, heavy and unmovable. Matteo rose and stepped toward her, brushing his hand lightly against her shoulder before leaving the room without another word.
The silence that followed seemed louder than before.

Later that night, the villa lay still. The storm outside had quieted into a soft drizzle that tapped against the windows. Alessia had left her journal open on the desk in her bedroom, too tired to continue writing. She had been pouring herself into the pages for days now, trying to make sense of scattered thoughts and fragments of memory. Some of those words were dangerous.

Matteo knew it.
He moved through the darkened hall with the ease of someone who could navigate the villa blindfolded. His hand rested on the edge of her desk for only a moment before he found the open journal. His eyes scanned quickly, pausing at a passage she had written earlier that day.

I am not sure if I can believe him anymore. The pieces do not fit. If Marco was trying to reach me, why would Matteo hide it?

Matteo closed the book slowly. Then, with the precision of someone removing a threat, he tore the page out along its seam. The sound of paper ripping was muffled under the steady patter of rain. He folded the sheet neatly and slid it into his jacket before placing the journal exactly as he had found it.

He left the room as silently as he had entered.

Hours later, Alessia stirred from a restless sleep. Her dreams had been thick with strange images: walls closing in, flames licking at the edges of a room she could not escape, a child crying somewhere she could not reach. When she woke, the heat of the fever clung to her skin, and her breaths came fast and shallow.

The darkness of the bedroom pressed close. She pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket around her. Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts still tangled in the dream. A single name slipped past her lips before she even realized she had spoken.

“Marco?”

The word was barely more than a whisper, but it felt loud in the stillness.

She looked toward the door, half-expecting someone to answer. No one did. The only sound was the rain, steady and unbroken.

Alessia lay back against the pillows, her pulse racing for reasons she could not explain. In the corner of the room, the red light of a hidden
camera blinked once and then went still.

Somewhere else in the villa, Matteo was still awake.