Carlo’s face was rigid with confusion.
Sofia already knew enough to be afraid.
Matteo stopped two steps from Elena. His tuxedo was still immaculate, his white rose boutonniere exactly where Livia had pinned it after complaining that the florist had left too much greenery around the stem.
“Elena,” he said again. “Whatever you think you’re doing, we can discuss it privately.”
The word privately moved through her like cold water.
An hour earlier, behind the walnut doors, she had pressed her back against the wall and listened to the guests settling into their chairs. She had stared at the faint red mark around her wrist, the narrow band of color half concealed by the fitted lace sleeve. She had heard Matteo’s voice in memory, controlled even when the rest of him had not been.
She had activated the recorder. A soft green light had appeared. She had slipped it beneath the bouquet ribbon and tucked eucalyptus leaves over it with fingers that would not stop shaking.
“Just keep breathing,” she had whispered.
Then the attendants opened the doors, and Elena had walked into the hall wearing the smile she had practiced since childhood—the one she used when clients doubted her, when her father lost his temper, when wealthy donors asked whether restoration architecture was an appropriate career for a young woman who might want children.