The morning broke heavy with silence. The villa no longer buzzed with power or laughter from Dante's men. Instead, the air hung thick with unease, as though even the walls sensed the decay spreading through the empire.
Isla sat by the tall windows in her room, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. Outside, the sun rose pale and tired over the courtyard. A pair of guards marched below, boots thudding against stone in a rhythm that used to make her heart race. Now, she barely noticed. Every sound had become background noise to the storm building in her mind.
She had reached the point where fear no longer ruled her. It had transformed into something sharper, something patient. She had spent weeks playing the part of the loyal wife, smiling on command, laughing when expected, hiding her disgust behind lowered lashes. But every false smile had been a step closer to freedom.
Today, she would move again.
