Page 35 of Queen
The answer isn’t the one I expected. It isn’t the battle I rehearsed. But the rise of heat under my skin comes anyway, that familiar push-pull between wanting to spit in his face and wanting to see how far he’ll take this game.
“What if I say no?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink. “Then you’ll keep dreaming about that grave instead of standing in front of it.”
The silence between us sharpens, brittle as glass. His stare pins me where I stand, dark and unrelenting, daring me to call his bluff.
Finally, I nod once, sharp and shallow. “Fine.”
The fire snaps again, sparks flaring and dying in the grate, but the air between us stays cold.
The Dress and the Memory
The knock comes just after sunset—three sharp raps on my door. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… inevitable.
When I open it, there’s no one standing there. Only a black garment bag hooked on the handle like a warning left in the dark. No note. No explanation.
I drag it inside, the zipper’s rasp cutting through the stillness of my suite like a blade. Inside waits the dress. Black velvet, heavy and rich, the kind of fabric that drinks light instead of reflecting it. The cut is merciless—low enough to bare, tight enough to constrict. And the red silk lining flashes at the edges like blood stains creeping across white cuffs.
Not just a dress. A leash dressed as jewelry. A chain stitched in velvet and silk.
I stare at it too long, my fingers caught in the folds as if the fabric itself has teeth. I know what this is: obedience, sewn together into something beautiful and cruel.
The ride to the cemetery is silent. Emiliano sits beside me in the back of the car, his presence filling every inch of air. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to. The velvet clings like armor and choke-chain all at once, pressing into my ribs with every bump in the road, reminding me with each breath that this isn’t mine.
When the gates open, the air changes. Colder. Heavier. The kind of air that belongs to the dead. Gravel crunches underfoot as we walk, our steps echoing too loud in the quiet.
The stone is exactly where I knew it would be, but seeing it makes my stomach twist all the same. Giovanni Rivas. The name carved deep into granite, letters gouged hard enough to outlast centuries. A pair of dates. A dash between them, a single line that dares to measure a life I lived inside like a cage.
I kneel. My knees sink into damp earth, velvet trailing against the soil until the hem is stained. For a moment, I forget the dress. Forget Emiliano’s presence a step behind me. Forget the rules.
My fingers trace the name, stone cold beneath my touch. I don’t speak aloud, but the words cut sharp inside my chest.You left me in pieces. And now those pieces belong to someone else.
I bow my head. Silence is my prayer.
I feel him before I hear him—Emiliano, standing close enough that the heat of his body cuts through the night chill. His shadow stretches over me, long across the grave, reaching. A breath moves the air above my shoulder, close enough that it stirs a strand of my hair, but his hand never lands.
“He gave you a crown,” Emiliano murmurs, voice so low it could be mistaken for wind. “But I will make you Queen.”
Not comfort. Not kindness. A promise. Maybe a threat. Maybe both.
The velvet feels heavier than stone.
A Ghost Left a Message
The air clings damp to my skin as I push myself up from the grave. My knees ache from kneeling on the cold ground, but the weight in my chest drags heavier. Emiliano hasn’t moved. His presence shadows every step as I dust grit from my palms, the velvet hem catching streaks of soil like blood smeared into fabric.
We’re only a few steps toward the car when a figure breaks into my periphery. The caretaker. An older man, back bent from decades bowed over stone. His thinning hair gleams pale under the low light, his gait quick but uncertain. His eyes flick between me and Emiliano as if trying to decide which of us is more dangerous.
In his gnarled hands, something small and pale flutters with each step.
“Signora,” he calls, his voice strained and uneven. “This… was left this morning.” His chest heaves when he reaches us, his arm trembling as he holds out a folded scrap of paper. “It had your name on it.”
My name.
A ripple of unease tightens through me, curling my grip around the clutch in my other hand. “From who?” The questioncuts sharper than I mean it to. He only shakes his head, his eyes darting back toward the rows of silent stones.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It was at the base of the headstone.”
