Page 23 of Iron Roses
So yes.
I let her die.
And when Elaria comes crawling back—wrapped in her father’s legacy, soaked in all that old Fontanesi grief—I’ll hand her right back to Fausto.
Let him finish what he started.
One day, Cassian will understand.
He’ll thank me.
Maybe not with words. Maybe not at all.
But when the house stands firm, and no one dares speak the name Fontanesi in our halls again—he’ll know.
And that will be enough.
Chapter Six – Elaria
Water laps against porcelain. I blink up at the ceiling—ornate, plaster-veined, unfamiliar. My body aches along the spine, skin wrinkled and chilled where the water's cooled. One arm lies draped over the rim of the bathtub, the other half-submerged, fingers slack beneath the surface. The tap is off, but the drain hasn’t held. The bathwater has lowered to my ribs.
I must have fallen asleep.
My limbs feel stapled, dense with exhaustion. The room is quiet. No one’s come in.
I sit up, water sloshing gently around me, and reach for a towel. It’s been placed neatly on a wooden stool near the head of the bath, folded with precision. The kind of care that feels impersonal.
The floor is cold under my feet as I step out. My knees wobble slightly. I brace one hand on the edge of the vanity, knuckles whitening against the polished marble until the dizziness passes.
The bedroom’s only a few steps away. I don’t bother drying completely. The towel stays around my shoulders, half-forgotten, clinging to one arm as I push the door open with my other hand.
The room is dim—just a sliver of dying daylight leaking in through the heavy curtains. On a low table near the window, a tray waits. The soup’s surface has a film now, thin and stiff. Thebread is rigid at the corners. Beside the tray, a stack of folded clothes sits atop a velvet armchair.
A blouse. Slacks. Another soft black scarf.
I drop the towel without ceremony and pull the clothes on, fabric sticking slightly to still-damp skin. The blouse is too loose. The pants cinch high but hang oddly. Someone guessed my size and missed by a margin.
I lower myself to the floor beside the tray and start to eat. The soup tastes metallic, the chill of it settling behind my teeth. I don’t finish the bread. I chew without thinking, eyes unfocused, jaw moving on autopilot.
Halfway through, I curl into the side of the bed and lie down on the carpet. I don’t remember closing my eyes.
When I wake again, it’s pitch dark.
No light filters through the curtains. I sit up—too fast—and knock the tray with my knee. The bowl rattles, spilling what’s left of the soup onto the rug
I reach out, fingers grazing the nearest wall, and feel along the molding until I find the switch.
Click.
The room lights in dull yellow, flickering slightly. My pupils contract. I squint until the shapes settle. I cross the room, one hand brushing the edge of the dresser for balance. The handle feels cold beneath my fingers.
Outside, the hallway yawns open. Shadows climb the walls in tall streaks. Everything smells of polish and quiet.
I step barefoot onto the marble and move without thinking. I pass a maid dusting a picture frame. She bows slightly. Says nothing. Her eyes don’t linger.
Another one walks briskly from a side room, carrying a silver tray. They look at me like they know who I am.
I pause at the edge of a long hallway, fingers brushing the wall.
