The clock struck seven in the evening when Svetlana sank into the armchair by the window in her room. Outside, the sun bled amber across the vineyards, bathing the estate in a fleeting golden glow. On the freshly delivered table, a variety of steaming dishes awaited her attention—but she had no appetite.

She looked at the food with disdain, pushing an olive to the edge of the plate with one finger. She couldn’t understand how she could feel so conflicted.

Her mind was torn between two irreconcilable halves: one part of her longed to run, to return to Moscow, to her family, to the life she knew. But the other... the other was dangerously growing accustomed to the comforts, the attention, the illusion of safety that this captivity provided.

Since that tense exchange with Dante’s mother and the altercation with Giulia, the rest of her day had passed without incident. She’d spent the morning in her Italian lesson, forcing her tongue to shape unfamiliar sounds under the strict gaze of her