"I want you to play your part."
"And what part is that, exactly?"
"The dutiful wife." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "Smile. Stand beside me. Let them believe this marriage is real."
"Stand beside you." she repeats.
"You won't have to do it for long," I say through gritted teeth. "I won't stay among them for more than necessary."
A pause.
"Why?"
The question is simple. Direct.
And it makes me want to tell her to go fuck herself.
But I can't say that. Not if I want this arrangement to work. Not if I want to prove to Pietro that I can handle a wife without destroying everything.
I search for other words. Better words.
"You're not allowed to ask why."
The silence stretches.
Then she laughs.
Not a polite laugh. Not a nervous one.
A real laugh. Low and surprised, like I've said something genuinely amusing.
"I'm not allowed," she says. "That's your answer."
"That's my answer."
"You're serious."
"I don't joke."
"No," she says slowly. "I don't imagine you do."
I can hear the laugh in her voice. It irritates me more than her questions did.
"Something funny?"
"You," she says. "You're funny."
"I'm not?—"
"You text me. Tell me we need rules. Then you give me orders and expect me not to ask questions." She pauses. "That's not how rules work. That's how commands work."
My jaw tightens. "You agreed to this marriage."
"I agreed to marry you. I didn't agree to be silent."
"You'll do what I tell you."
"Will I?"