Chapter 5

　　The door opened again, and Olivia swept out, her expression unreadable. Lorenzo followed, his features carefully composed.

　　"We're having dinner in the east dining room," Olivia announced for Ivy's benefit. "Let's see how well you handle a proper Martinelli family meal."

　　The family dining hall was a cavernous space inside the main mansion. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. A long oak table stretched across the room, already set with gold-rimmed china and shining silverware. Servants in white jackets stood silently at intervals.

　　Dinner was a symphony of passive aggression. Between the veal medallions and the tiramisu, Olivia made several pointed remarks about loyalty, legacy, and the importance of knowing one's place. Ivy responded with grace and veiled wit, never letting her guard down.

　　It was a game of mental chess, and she was beginning to understand just how high the stakes were.

　　After the meal, Salvatore Martinelli, the family patriarch, made his appearance. Wheeled in by his nurse, the old man was a commanding presence despite his frailty. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

　　"Ah," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper, "the bride."

　　Ivy stood and offered a polite nod. "Sir."

　　"Call me Nonno," he said jovially. "That's what my grandchildren call me. You're family now, aren't you?"

　　"Yes, Nonno," Ivy responded dutifully.

　　"Welcome to the family, Ivy," Salvatore said after taking his place at the head of the table.

　　"You carry our name now," he continued in his raspy voice. "That comes with privileges and responsibilities."

　　Ivy nodded, unsure if she was expected to reply.

　　Salvatore continued. "I have a gift for you, my dear. A small incentive, if you will."

　　Silence descended on the room. You could hear a pin drop.

　　Salvatore continued, "If within a year you give this family an heir, you will receive my late wife's jewelry box."

　　There was a sharp intake of breath. Olivia's wine glass paused mid-air, Isabella's fork clinked loudly against her plate, and Giulia rolled her eyes dramatically.

　　Ivy's heart thudded. "That's... very generous," she stuttered.

　　Salvatore smiled thinly. "Family is everything. We must ensure our legacy."

　　Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "Nonno, this isn't necessary."

　　"It is," the old man snapped. "It's tradition."

　　The rest of dinner was a strained affair. The food was exquisite, but Ivy could barely taste it. Every word from Olivia and her daughters was laced with veiled insults.

　　"So, Ivy," Isabella said, dabbing her lips with a napkin, "where did you say you went to school?"

　　"I didn't," Ivy replied, trying to keep her voice even. "I dropped out at sixteen."

　　"Ah," Giulia said with mock sympathy. "Such a shame, but not everyone's cut out for academics, right?"

　　Olivia interjected coolly. "We'll have to work on your etiquette. A Martinelli wife should reflect the family's status."

　　Ivy felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but she forced a smile. "I'm a quick learner," she said tightly.

　　Lorenzo stayed quiet through most of the meal, occasionally offering her a glance that could have meant anything. Ivy wasn't sure whether he was embarrassed by his family's treatment of her or simply indifferent.

　　After dessert, Salvatore raised his glass. "To our new bride. May she bear the next generation of Martinellis."

　　Ivy sipped her wine automatically, aware of all the eyes watching her. The moment the toast ended, Olivia stood.

　　"Come, girls. I believe we've endured enough formality for one evening," she said frostily.

　　The three women rose and swept out of the room, heels clicking on marble. Lorenzo remained seated, swirling his wine.

　　"You handled that well," he said quietly.

　　Ivy looked at him, her expression guarded. "They hate me."

　　He didn't deny it. "They'll get used to you. Or not. Doesn't matter."

　　"It does to me," Ivy said.

　　He met her eyes for the first time with something close to vulnerability. "Try not to take it personally. In this family, respect is earned."

　　Ivy nodded slowly. "Then I'll earn it," she vowed.

　　A flicker of something crossed Lorenzo's face: respect? Surprise? Ivy couldn't tell. He stood and offered his hand.

　　"Come. I'll show you to your room."

　　Ivy's suite was on the third floor of the west wing. It was ornate, enormous, and suffocatingly silent. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace.

　　A king-sized canopy bed dominated the room, draped in silk. French windows overlooked the vineyard. Lorenzo showed her around without much ceremony.

　　"This is yours," he said. "If you need anything, ring for Anna. She'll take care of it."

　　Ivy followed him as he turned to leave. "Wait. Are you not... staying?"

　　Lorenzo hesitated at the door. "No. I'll be in my room. It's across the hall. We'll take this one step at a time."

　　Ivy nodded, though disappointment twisted in her chest.

　　"Goodnight, Mrs. Martinelli," he said before closing the door behind him.

　　Ivy stood there for a moment, in a room filled with luxury but cold as ice.

　　One step at a time, she thought.

　　I'll survive this, she assured herself. Just like I've survived everything else.

　　The next morning, sunlight seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold, coaxing Ivy out of a restless sleep. She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, ornate with subtle molding and bathed in soft white.

　　For a moment, she thought it was all a dream — until she turned her head and saw the velvet chaise lounge, the fresh bouquet of white orchids on the nightstand, and the faint outline of her wedding dress hanging in the closet.

　　She was in the Martinelli estate. She was married. And she was alone.

　　The suite was unnervingly silent. Ivy sat up slowly, the silk sheets gliding off her skin like water. She had never slept on anything this soft, never known what it felt like to be surrounded by such extravagance. Even the air here smelled expensive, like lavender and money.

　　As her bare feet touched the warm floor, Ivy felt the echo of her old life tug at her. In her tiny apartment, she'd wake to the creak of the ceiling fan and the distant wail of the neighbor's baby. Here, silence was its own kind of noise… too clean, too calculated.

　　A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Ivy quickly grabbed the silky robe draped over a nearby chair to cover herself.

　　"Come in," she called, wrapping the plush robe tighter around herself.