4 - The False Freedom

Alina

Light filtered through the cracks in the heavy curtains when the sound of the door opening woke me. Still groggy from restless sleep and the tangled dreams that haunted me through the night, I slowly sat up in bed. The warmth of the fireplace no longer heated the room as before, and my feet touched the cold floor with a slight shiver.

Standing before the bed was the same middle-aged woman from before, carrying a silver tray with breakfast. She wore a simple black dress, a white apron, and her hair was tightly pinned in a bun. Her features were serious, but her eyes were kind. The housekeeper.

“Good morning, Miss Ribeiro,” she said with a slight nod. “Mr. Morelli asked that your breakfast be served.”

I blinked, surprised. I still felt tangled in the memories of the previous night — the tension of dinner, the piano, the warmth of his presence. My heart still echoed with Dante’s dangerous whispers. But in the present, it was just the woman before me, offering warm croissants, homemade jams, and a steaming cup of coffee.

“Thank you…” I murmured, taking the cup.

She nodded and arranged the cutlery with methodical gestures.

“I must also inform you that, starting today, you are allowed to walk around the house.”

My eyes widened.

“What do you mean?” I asked, still confused.

“All rooms with unlocked doors are open to your presence. The rest will remain off-limits for safety. But within those boundaries, you are free to move.”

“And Dante... I mean, Mr. Morelli… does he know about this?” I asked, still suspicious.

“These were his orders.” The woman gave a small smile, as if she knew more than she let on. “He said it would be... good for you to get to know your new home.”

New home.

The words landed like stones in my stomach. It wasn’t my home. It would never be. And yet, something in me — maybe the part that had already grown tired of resisting — wanted to leave that room. To see something beyond the four walls that suffocated me.

“What’s your name?” I asked before she left.

“Rosetta, miss.”

Rosetta. A delicate name for someone who seemed made of iron and devoid of any compassion.

“Thank you, Rosetta.”

She nodded, left in silence, and the doorknob clicked softly as it closed.

I ate slowly. There was no poison in the coffee, no hidden shackles in the bread. It was just food. Good food, in fact. And that only made everything feel stranger. Because the more Dante offered me comfort, the clearer the contrast of the invisible prison surrounding me became.

After taking a shower and putting on a soft white sweater and fitted pants, I took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door. The hallway was empty, lit by stained glass windows that painted the floor with diffused light. My heart beat fast. As if at any moment someone would appear and drag me back.

But no one came.

I walked slowly, passing paintings that looked more expensive than my entire life. Golden frames, thick carpets, solemn silence. That house was a palace of shadows. Imposing, rich, but filled with a latent tension. As if every wall held secrets I wasn’t ready to discover.

The first unlocked room I found was a small sitting room with a fireplace and leather sofas. I didn’t stop. I kept walking.

It was when I passed a carved wooden door, opened just enough, that the memory of piano keys echoed in my mind. It was the same place from the night before. The white piano was still there, gleaming under the daylight. The tall plants flanking the conservatory gave the room an ethereal touch. But I didn’t enter. I couldn’t. Not yet.

I kept walking until, turning a corner to the right, I saw something that made me stop.

The library.

The door was wide open as if inviting me in. And for the first time since I had been kidnapped, I felt a genuine urge to cross that threshold.

The place was… immense. Towering shelves reached the ceiling. A rolling ladder ran from side to side, like in old movies. The smell of leather, old paper, and varnish filled my senses. A familiar, comforting aroma. Like going back in time.

Sunlight streamed delicately through the tall windows, creating golden strips that lit up random sections of books. It was a literary paradise. And I, daughter of a schoolteacher and a voracious reader by nature, found myself smiling for the first time in days.

“Oh my God…” I whispered, running my fingers along the spine of a brown leather-bound volume. “There are more books here than in my university’s library.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration.

There were rare editions. Works in Latin. Books on philosophy, art, psychology, classical literature. Translations of Russian poets. Treatises on ancient wars. French romances. I felt like a child in a toy store.

I gently moved the ladder and climbed two steps, pulling out a volume of Dostoevsky. I opened to the first page. The book exhaled the bittersweet scent of time. I sat in an armchair by the window and began to read. Without rush. Without fear, for a few minutes. As if the world outside didn’t exist. As if I wasn’t a prisoner.

I read for an indeterminate amount of time. The quiet peace of the library embraced me like an old hug. It was as if the books whispered: “You are still you, Alina. Even here. Even now.”

The words intertwined with my thoughts. I couldn’t stop the image of him — Dante — from surfacing in my mind. The way he looked at me. The intensity of his eyes. The heat his body radiated even when he didn’t touch me. It was wrong. Toxic. And yet, it was there, lodged inside me.

I closed the book firmly. I couldn’t lose myself in that. I couldn’t let this gilded cage and that enigmatic man entrap me. I needed to hold on to my sanity, my identity. And maybe, just maybe, these books were my silent weapon.

I stood, chose two more volumes, and carried them back to the armchair. I curled up, legs tucked, and resumed reading, trying to ignore the uneasy thump in my chest. As if, at any moment, he might walk through that door.

But he didn’t.

And I spent the rest of the morning there, among words, thoughts, and the silent battle to remember who I was… before him.