I didn't sleep.
I sat on the narrow cot in the maids' dormitory with my knees pulled to my chest, the entire night, the thin blanket doing nothing against the cold that lived inside my bones now.
At 5:00 a.m. the head housekeeper banged on the door.
"Valenti! You're still employed, miracle of miracles. East Wing. Crown Prince's private residence. Report in ten minutes or you're out on the street."
The East Wing.
His wing.
I wanted to scream that I quit. I wanted to run.
But I had forty-three euros in my account and nowhere to go.
So I pinned my hair back, put on the crisp black-and-white uniform, and walked into the lion's den.
The moment I stepped into the private corridor, I felt him.
Not saw, felt.
Like the air itself bent toward him.
He was standing at the far end, surrounded by black-suited advisors, signing something on a tablet. The morning sun cut through the tall windows and turned his profile into marble.
He didn't look up. Not once.
I kept my eyes on the floor and followed the senior maid, Mrs. Renaud.
She hissed instructions while we walked.
"Eyes down. Mouth shut. The prince hates noise. If he speaks to you, answer only yes, Your Highness or no, Your Highness. And whatever you do, don't cry in front of him again. Half the palace is already calling you the weeping teapot."
Great.
We entered the staff pantry. Five other maids were there, folding linen napkins into perfect swans. The second they saw me the whispers started.
"That's her."
"Dropped the entire tray right at His Highness's feet."
"He looked like he wanted to strangle her."
"Or kiss her. Did you see his face for that one second?"
I pretended I couldn't hear and started polishing silverware until my fingers bled.
Everywhere I went that day, he was him.
I dusted a bookshelf in the library, he walked past the open door with foreign diplomats, voice low and commanding, never glancing inside.
I arranged flowers in the atrium, he stood on the balcony above, on a call, staring down at the city while the wind pulled at his dark hair. His gaze slid over me like I was part of the furniture.
I carried fresh towels to the private gym, he was doing pull-ups shirtless, sweat running down the back I used to trace with my tongue. He dropped to the floor the second I appeared, grabbed a towel, and left without a word.
Cold. Distant. Cruel.
By late afternoon my heart was nothing but bruises.
I kept telling myself: Good. Hate him. It's easier this way.
But every time he walked past, my skin burned like he was the sun and I was still stupid enough to reach for him.
At 6:47 p.m. Mrs. Renaud appeared again, face grim.
"Private study. Now. His Highness wants tea for one. You're serving."
My stomach dropped to the floor.
I carried the tray with both hands so it wouldn't shake. Rosehip tea, no sugar, exactly the way he, the way Alessandro used to like it when he came home exhausted and I made him drink something that wasn't whiskey.
The study doors were carved mahogany, heavy as guilt.
I knocked once.
"Come in," his voice said, low, clipped.
I pushed the door open with my hip and stepped inside.
The room smelled like leather, cedar and him.
He was behind the massive desk, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. Papers everywhere. A half-empty glass of something amber beside him.
I kept my eyes on the tray and walked forward.
Set it down.
Curtsy.
Turn to leave.
The lock clicked.
I froze.
He had locked the door.
My pulse exploded in my ears.
Slowly, I turned around.
Alessandro leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching me like a predator who finally had his prey alone.
The cold mask was still there, but it was cracking at the edges.
His voice was quiet. Deadly.
"Now you can scream at me all you want, Lia. No one will hear."
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Until he was close enough that I could see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the ones that told me he hadn't slept either.
His hand rose, slow, giving me time to slap it away.
When I didn't, his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear, touch feather-light and shaking.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words raw. "For yesterday. For every day. But if I had looked at you one second longer in that hall, they would have started digging. And once they dig…"
He swallowed hard.
"They will kill you to keep the bloodline pure."
My breath hitched.
He was so close now I could feel the heat of him through my uniform.
His forehead dropped to mine, eyes closed, voice breaking.
"I can survive anything except losing you again."
The tray on the desk rattled when my hip bumped it.
Tea sloshed over the rim of the cup.
Neither of us moved to clean it.
Outside the locked door, footsteps passed, voices, life.
Inside, there was only the sound of two years of silence finally shattering.
And the way his hand slid to the nape of my neck like he was one heartbeat away from kissing me senseless or falling to his knees.
I still hadn't decided which one I wanted more.