Ex Boyfriend.

The car moved slowly along the dirt road that cut through the vineyards. On both sides, the vines seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, an orderly sea of greens and ochres that smelled of promises and buried secrets.

Martina, my younger sister, squeezed my hand with a mix of excitement and nervousness. She, with her dreams still intact; I, with mine already well packed into boxes of cynicism and ambition.

"You know?" she whispered, with that voice that still believed good things always come. "This place is amazing. It looks like it's straight out of a movie."

I smiled, feeling triumphant, though my mouth refused to reveal what I really felt. Luxury, yes. But also a cage. This estate wasn't a fairy tale castle, but a trap dressed in elegance, and very soon I would be in charge.

"A beautiful prison," I said sarcastically. "Two months here, Martina. Two months to get to know the family before the wedding."

She looked at me, confused.

"Why?"

"Because for me, this isn't about getting to know the family. I'm here to gain ground and enjoy everything that will one day be mine: the ring, the fortune, the last name. I don't care if Marco likes me or not."

Martina swallowed and turned her gaze to the landscape, which seemed eternal.

The Leone estate was a monument to control. Every stone, every branch pruned from the vines, every velvet curtain in the windows, was there to remind you who was in charge and who obeyed. I was about to become just another cog in the machine.

When we reached the massive wrought-iron gate, a woman with an impassive expression greeted us. Her impeccable uniform and cold eyes didn't hide the judgment that no one, like her, bothered to conceal.

"Welcome home, ladies," she said in a voice trying to be polite, but barely managed to sound courteous.

As I settled into the room assigned to me, I noticed Martina couldn't stop admiring every detail: the antique furniture, the carpet muffling the sound of our steps, the chandeliers hanging with dim lights that illuminated the space with an almost spectral aura.

As soon as we entered the dining room, the family was already gathered. It wasn't a large group, but it was enough to make you feel watched.

Marco was there, perfectly dressed, with a restrained smile that didn't reach his eyes. When he saw me, he nodded slightly, without getting too close.

The tension between us was almost palpable, although most of the others seemed not to notice or preferred to pretend everything was normal.

Amid whispers and exchanged glances, the conversation revolved around the wedding preparations, the menu, the dress, and the hours left before the rehearsal.

But I couldn't stop watching. Not them, but myself in that broken reflection of what I wanted to be. Clara, the woman who agreed to marry a man she barely knew, not for love, but for a promise of stability and power.

Suddenly, a tall and silent man entered the room. His steps were firm, his bearing imposing. It was Nicolo, Marco's older brother. His gaze crossed the room and stopped on me as if weighing every unspoken word.

He didn't speak, didn't smile, just nodded with a gravity that chilled my blood.

"So, this is the fiancée," someone whispered beside me. "Clara, right? Welcome to Leone."

I felt a cold sweat running down my back. It wasn't the heat of the Italian summer, but the invisible pressure of a game that had barely begun.

That night, while the estate slept under the moon, my mind couldn't stop spinning with everything I'd seen: the looks, the silences, the forced laughter, and the heavy air of secrets on the verge of exploding.

I knew this story wouldn't end with a "happily ever after." Something dark was hidden behind those walls.

And I was determined to uncover it. Even if it meant becoming the worst version of myself.

The next morning dawned with such intense sunlight that it seemed to try to wash away the dark corners of the estate. But even the fresh air couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, judged.

Martina and I woke up early. She, thrilled with the idea of exploring the gardens; I, with the intention of mentally mapping out my game plan.

When we went down to the kitchen, the house was already buzzing with staff preparing everything for the day's reception. The smell of freshly baked bread and strong coffee made me think of something other than the cage awaiting me, but it was only for an instant.

As I watched the servants, I noticed some would look away when I crossed their path, as if they had secrets they didn't want to share. And then I heard murmurs, fragments of words: "Marco," "final rehearsal," "everything must go perfectly."

A chill ran down my spine. Though I didn't know it yet, the pieces were starting to fall into place.

Suddenly, Nicolo appeared in the kitchen doorway, his figure outlined against the light of the courtyard. He was dressed simply but impeccably, and his gaze caught mine immediately.

"Clara," he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I hope you're finding the estate to your liking."

I responded with a simple "yes," hiding the tremor I felt. There was something about him, the way his eyes kept searching for a response in me, that unsettled me.

As he walked away, the air seemed to grow thicker. My senses sharpened: I felt the sweat in my palms, the rapid pace of my breathing, and a knot in my stomach that I knew was fear disguised as anticipation.

During the day, Martina and I toured the property, but I couldn't help but sneak glances toward the windows, expecting Marco to appear at any moment.

That night, in my room, silence was only broken by the rapid beat of my heart. My thoughts drifted to a hazy memory, fragments of a conversation with my mother where something was mentioned that I didn't understand at the time: "He's not who he seems..."

The broken memory left me with more questions than answers.

I knew that "he" referred to Marco, the fiancé who was about to become the center of a storm I couldn't even begin to imagine.

And as the moon illuminated the estate, I wondered if I truly wanted to be part of that story... or if I was simply another pawn in a game of lies.