On my own wedding night with Cesare, the only thing on my head had been a wreath of wildflowers he'd woven with his own hands.
He'd said to me then: "My Serafina deserves the finest things in this world. Even a princess's crown wouldn't be too good for you."
And now he had traded his service commendations to give that very tiara to Sienna Marchetti.
That evening, Cesare came carrying a whole box of my favorite pastries.
He sat across from me, his expression perfectly composed. "Eat something. The baby must be hungry."
Only then did I pick up a piece and take small, careful bites.
But watching him act as though nothing had happened filled my mouth with bitterness no pastry could mask.
"When did it happen?"
Cesare froze. He poured me a cup of espresso to cover his discomfort, then said in a flat voice, "On your birthday."
The ground dropped out from under me. A month ago, on my birthday, Cesare had vanished without a word. I searched for him the entire night, up the mountain and down, calling his name until my voice gave out.
He didn't come back until the next morning, dusty and disheveled, claiming he'd gotten lost looking for a birthday gift for me.