The morning breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and damp earth. The sun barely filtered through the olive branches, casting shadows over the meticulously manicured lawn. Svetlana sat on a stone bench, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Her blue eyes—cold as a Russian winter—were lost in the horizon, where the sky met the vastness of the estate that, to her, was nothing more than a gilded cage.

She couldn’t understand why Dante had confined her to one wing of the mansion after assuring her she was free to roam the house. That contradiction baffled her. She was supposedly no longer a prisoner, yet the locked doors and constant surveillance told a different story. She was like a bird with clipped wings, offered a larger cage but with no chance to fly.

Luckily, she had books. Stacks of them. Stories of love, war, and betrayal. Sometimes, she would lose herself in a novel until reality dissolved between the pages. She also had