Chapter 17 The First Wrong Day
••Luciana••
I managed to navigate my way back to the room, but my legs felt strange, as if they no longer belonged to me. Roman's outburst echoed in my mind, harsh and loud. Since the engagement meetings started, he had hardly exchanged more than a few words with me—just four words here, two there, always delivered in a clipped, controlled manner. And today, when he finally strung together complete sentences, it was only to raise his voice at me.
My inaugural day as an Orlov had crumbled before it even got going. The morning was tinged with bitterness, and I felt a tightness in my chest. This whole mess wouldn't have unfolded if it weren't for that relentless message. Who was behind it? Who found amusement in yanking me around like a puppet? What on earth did they want? Why was Pier Twelve involved again? And why me?
I would fill Matteo and Antonio in later; they'd have a way of extracting the truth from anyone, even the devil, if need be. But for now, all I craved was warmth. The chill from outside had seeped deep into my bones.
I stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the steam envelop me. As the hot water cascaded over my skin, I let my eyes close. I stayed there longer than i planned, letting the tension melt off my shoulders. I didn’t feel better, just less frozen.
Hours passed before i returned to the hallway. My stomach growled… loudly enough to embarrass me if someone had been around.
The dining room was empty. Completely silent.
Of course they had already eaten. Why wouldn’t they?
I sighed and stepped into the kitchen, where a maid was cleaning the counter. The woman smiled politely, bowing her head a little.
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to the house, I'm Ami the chef."
"Thank you Ami, you can call me Luci." I corrected her out of habit.
Ami just smiled.
“ Could you make me something light?” I asked. “Maybe tea and toast… nothing heavy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The maid moved quickly, preparing everything with quiet grace. I sat at the small corner table, the one reserved for late meals. I ate slowly, staring at nothing, replaying everything.
Roman’s voice. His eyes.
The anger that burned like he expected war, not a missing bride. I sighed again, pushing my empty plate away. When I finally stood, ready to leave, footsteps echoed behind me. It was heavy and familiar.
Roman appeared at the entrance, his broad shoulders dominating the space, but this time his demeanor lacked its usual intensity. There was no storm brewing; instead, something quieter lingered—something I didn't recognize.
He approached me steadily, neither rushing nor dragging his feet, taking careful steps.
“I need to talk to you,” he stated quietly.
I stayed silent. He took a deep breath and pressed on, “Why did you leave? Where did you go?”
There was no hint of accusation in his tone; it was calm, almost tender. I could sense his effort, but I wasn't in the mood for it—not today.
A tightness gripped my chest, and the earlier heat flared up again. I exhaled sharply before responding, yet maintained a straight posture and slightly lifted my chin to remind him of my strength.
“If you’re looking for a report, Roman,” I replied, my voice as cold and sharp as ice, “I don’t owe you anything.”
His jaw tightened, but I continued. “I stepped out, I came back. That should suffice for you.”
Though my words remained composed, an underlying tremor betrayed my anger and hurt. I was determined not to let it show on my face, but it lived in my tone like a thread pulled too tight.
Roman didn’t move. His eyes studied mine, searching for something I wasn’t offering.
“If you were uncomfortable in this house, you could have said something,” he said quietly.
A sharp laugh slipped out of me, his words were not believeable.
“Uncomfortable? This has nothing to do with comfort,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t break apart that easily.”
The coldness sharpened.
“What I didn’t expect was being yelled at like a child. Especially on my first day here.”
Roman looked away for a second. A tiny moment, just a crack.
Good. Let him feel it.
“I wasn’t yelling because you left,” he said. “I yelled because—”
“Save it,” i cut in gently but firmly. “I don’t need your reasons. You don’t have to like me, and you don’t even have to speak to me. Just don’t talk to me like that again.”
I put my hands steady at my sides, but my heart knocked once against my ribs. Hard.
I met his stare without blinking.
“I’m an Orlov now. Not an ornament, not a child. So treat me like it.”
Then I stepped past him—smooth, regal, untouched—holding the last bit of my dignity like armor.
Even if my chest burned with the weight of everything i refused to show.