The transition from the deep, velvet oblivion of sleep to the golden reality of your first morning in the villa is slow and honeyed. The light in the master suite is different now; the silver mercury of the moon has been replaced by the unapologetic brilliance of the Mediterranean sun. It filters through the sheer linen curtains, casting long, ethereal slats of light across the charcoal silk sheets.

As you stir, the first thing you feel is the weight. Not just the heavy, protective arm of your husband draped across your waist, but the metaphorical weight of the name you now carry. Mrs. Ashcroft. It feels like a crown—beautiful, expensive, and laden with a responsibility you are only just beginning to understand. You are no longer an island; you are part of a continent, anchored to the man whose heartbeat is a steady, rhythmic thrum against your shoulder blades.