The bookstore near the marina was tucked between a florist and an old music shop, its windows filled with mismatched books, dried flowers, and postcards that looked older than Sofia.
She stepped inside, instantly wrapped in the scent of espresso and old pages.
A small bell chimed overhead.
Daisy sat at a corner table, a cappuccino in one hand and a half-eaten croissant in the other. She waved as soon as she saw her.
"Sofia!" Her grin was bright and real. "You're early!"
"I didn't want to be late," Sofia said softly, slipping into the chair opposite her. "This place is beautiful."
"I thought you'd like it." Daisy nudged the second cup toward her. "I ordered you a hot chocolate. You looked more like a chocolate girl than a coffee one."
Sofia smiled—actually smiled. "Thank you."
For a moment, they sat in companionable silence as the shop hummed gently around them. A couple at the bar flipped through a photography book. The barista hummed along to a soft Italian ballad playing through the speakers.
"So," Daisy said, leaning forward with a mock-conspiratorial tone. "How's Mafia Ken treating you these days?"
Sofia choked on her drink, laughing. "Please don't call him that."
"Why not? He's got that broody villain energy. Like, 'I don't love. I negotiate.'"
Sofia giggled, covering her mouth. "It's not like that."
Daisy tilted her head. "But it's not not like that either."
Sofia hesitated. She looked down at her drink.
"It's... complicated," she admitted. "He's cold. Controlling. Sometimes I think he hates that I'm even there."
Daisy's expression softened. "But you're stuck."
Sofia nodded. "It's like living in someone else's movie. I don't know what part I'm supposed to play."
Daisy reached out, gently brushing Sofia's wrist. "You don't have to play anything when you're with me. Just be."
For a while, they browsed the shop together—Sofia's shoulders slowly uncoiling. She picked up a romance novel with a faded spine, and Daisy insisted on buying it for her.
"Consider it a survival kit," she said.
As they walked along the marina afterward, the breeze cool against their faces, Sofia felt... something she hadn't in weeks.
Freedom.
Not a lot. Just a sliver.
But it was enough.
---
Later that evening, she was back in the fortress.
The contrast between Daisy's world and Alessandro's was almost dizzying.
The Moretti estate was buzzing—cars pulling in, staff rushing to prepare for the dinner. The air held the faint smell of garlic and lemon and roasted fish.
She walked into the grand dining room and paused at the threshold.
Alessandro was already there, dressed in a slate-gray shirt, sleeves rolled up, deep in conversation with his aunt—Donna Moretti.
She turned when she saw Sofia and smiled warmly. "There she is, the future lady of the house!"
Sofia offered a quiet "Good evening" and sat down across from them.
Alessandro barely glanced at her.
The first few courses went smoothly. Sofia picked at her food, trying to appear composed despite her fraying nerves. The conversation flowed easily between Alessandro and his aunt—sharp, elegant, full of references Sofia didn't recognize.
Then came the seafood course.
Grilled scallops with lemon butter and white wine sauce.
The smell alone made Sofia's chest tighten.
She didn't touch the plate.
Alessandro looked up.
"You're not eating."
"I can't," she said quietly. "I'm allergic."
A beat of silence.
Donna looked surprised. "You are?"
"Yes. Seafood makes my throat swell. I forgot to mention it earlier, I'm sorry."
Alessandro stared at her, fork still in hand.
"You didn't tell anyone."
"I didn't think—there's usually other options."
Donna waved a hand. "Oh, no harm done. We'll get you something else. Gianni!" she called toward the kitchen.
But Alessandro kept looking at Sofia like he was seeing something unfamiliar. Something he'd missed.
"You're allergic to seafood?" he asked again, like confirming a fact.
"Yes."
He said nothing.
Just stared a second longer than necessary before looking away.
---
Later, as she stood at the sink washing her hands in one of the estate's many powder rooms, the moment played over in her head.
The way he looked at her—surprised.
Like he hadn't considered that she had needs. Preferences. Weaknesses.
You're allergic to seafood?
It echoed not just in curiosity, but something else. Something close to guilt.
Maybe—finally—he realized he didn't know her at all.