LXXXI. Unravels me

LXXXI. Unravels me
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When I return to Enzo’s wing, already carrying the cart full of silver trays and the usual breakfast—at least something is following the script—Enzo is already dressed, and honestly, this is the first time I’ve seen him like this.
His blond hair is perfectly combed to the left, with not a single strand out of place, and his beard is neatly trimmed. I can smell the shaving lotion mixed with the cologne I noticed on the first night as I approach the balcony… a masculine, expensive scent that makes me breathe deeply and fill my lungs before I even realize it.
The white dress shirt fits just snug enough to outline the muscles he works on for hours at the gym, but not so tight or uncomfortable. The top two collar buttons are left open, revealing glimpses of his thick neck, and the sleeves, folded at the wrists, add, or at least should add, a more relaxed vibe, despite the extremely expensive custom-made formal clothes.
But honestly, even while distracted by his phone and preparing for a potentially hectic day, Enzo looks untouchable.
And flawless.
Dangerously flawless.
There’s a graceful stiffness in how he leans against the balcony, but that can’t truly hide what’s beneath: the tension in his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the finger moving over his phone screen with restrained impatience.
But when he notices I’m there, something shifts. His demeanor softens. He lowers the phone, straightens his posture, and squares his shoulders, trying to take up even more space than before.
I push the cart toward the low table on the balcony and start arranging everything silently, but it’s a different kind of silence from before because now it has eyes. Enzo’s watching me, far too attentive for someone who should be focused on those urgent morning commitments.
The delicate clink of porcelain against silver sounds overly loud in that suspended air, and I feel each of my movements grow heavier—the way I lean forward to set the tray, the way I smooth the linen cloth, the way I lift my hand to brush a strand of hair from my face.
Every movement, no matter how small, is watched. With intense focus, I can almost feel it like a physical touch against my back.
When I finally serve the tea correctly this time and place the pot next to the cup, Enzo approaches casually, with a presence that doesn’t need to announce itself. He stops behind me, close enough for me to feel his heat against my back, and his scent grows stronger, but not close enough to touch him.
He doesn’t say a word, but he approves of it because he sits in the only chair, picks up the cup, and brings it to his mouth without taking his eyes off me, with no hurry, as if the tea were secondary and I were the most important part of that morning…
Then, after the first sip, he finally turns back to the horizon, something else taking control of his thoughts.
The sun shines on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the cool, golden shine of his perfectly styled hair.
I wait to be dismissed, but it doesn’t happen. The seconds turn into restless minutes as I shift my weight from one leg to the other, standing beside the table, while he examines the garden of his billionaire mansion.
“What are your plans for today?” he finally asks, but that alone is absurd. What else would a personal maid be doing at work?
But I keep the sharp words on my tongue.
“Finish the task,” I say instead, trying to sound unconcerned.
“Organize the sheet music?” One corner of his lips lifts slightly. I do not answer. I do not need to. “Did they tell you what day it is today?”
“No.”
“Mmm.” He murmurs thoughtfully and takes a longer sip of coffee. “It is an important day for the Bianchis.”
He lowers the cup a little, his eyes back on mine.
“Do you know what the Gran Serata is, Marina?”
Of course I know. It’s not just a ball hosted by the Bianchis—it’s the most anticipated night for Milan’s high society. A true gala where politicians, aristocrats, and the remnants of the decaying nobility gather to drink expensive wine and negotiate contracts.
“No. What is it?”
Enzo narrows his eyes slightly, searching for an opening, something that will reveal my lie. But I just blink innocently and meet his gaze as if I were hearing about it for the first time.
“Oh, right... You’re not from Milan, are you?” he murmurs, dangerously thoughtful, and tilts his head slightly, studying my face for one more full second longer than necessary before letting out a short breath through his nose, almost a humorless laugh. “It’s a long, loud, exhausting night.”
Enzo places the cup on the saucer with frustrating elegance, without even trying.
“...With people far too proud to admit they need to impress each other.” His voice is low and smooth, but there’s something underneath it, a layer of old tiredness that doesn’t match the perfection of his appearance.
“I understand.” I nod, pretending to carefully process the information, then add, with just the right hint of caution and innocence, “And will it happen in the main hall?”
I see the exact moment when the suspicion softens in his expression, and the defenses he had up since he saw Stella with me this morning start to lower. At least, just a little.
“No.” Enzo leans back in his upholstered chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “It happens every year at Palazzo Serbelloni.” He offers a bitter smile. “My father has high standards.”
“So, do you want me to prepare your day for the event?”
My question seems to catch him off guard, because he lets out a low, rough, short, but genuine laugh, judging by how his eyes light up and their corners crease slightly. “Yes, something like that.”
This time, I am the one narrowing mine—because when men like Enzo aren’t being direct about something, it’s because the subtext hides sharp edges.
“I can do that,” I say, maybe a bit too confidently for a maid.
He looks me from head to toe, less hungry, more... precise. As if I were a work of art standing under new light, taking on new colors and a whole universe of meanings.
The weight of that look nearly makes me bend. I feel it pressing on my shoulders, my lungs, holding the air inside just a second too long.
“I think you can,” he finally says, lifting his pale eyes back to mine.
And, in that moment, for just one second, I feel like he can see me. Truly. All my layers, the secrets I hide, the lies I tell everyone, and, most of all, the ones I tell myself.
That unsettles me.
Unravels me.
It makes the air slip harshly through a gap in my lips and return just as quickly when I breathe too fast to seem casual.
“So?” Heat rises slowly up the back of my neck, irritating in the same way that it keeps me alert. “What exactly needs to be prepared, Signore?”
Enzo’s phone rings at that exact moment, but it does little to ease the pressure between my ribs.
“You,” he says, ignoring the insistent call and making that one, simple word echo in my mind, louder than the unanswered call…
What?