We climbed a grand curved staircase to the second floor.

The walls were covered in pale yellow silk damask that smelled of wax and old paper.

Every few steps, we passed heavy oil paintings of grim-faced men from another century.

Matteo stopped at the end of the long corridor and opened a tall white door.

“These are your quarters,” he said.

The room was large, with a king-sized bed covered in crisp white linens.

Heavy velvet drapes hung beside glass doors that opened onto a stone balcony.

On a wooden console table near the window sat my two suitcases.

“Who brought these?” I asked, stepping into the room.

“We had them collected from your hotel while you were downstairs,” Matteo said.

“You planned all of this,” I said, turning to face him.

“We plan for every outcome,” he replied. “The wedding will take place in three days.”

“Three days?” My heart sank.

“My uncle does not like to wait,” Matteo said.

He stepped back into the hallway, his hand on the brass doorknob.

“A dressmaker will arrive at four o’clock,” he added. “Do not try to leave the room.”