Episode 4

Chapter 4

Encounter in the darkness.

The tapping of the last chords of the orchestra echoed distantly. The great hall, where beautiful crystal lamps and adorned faces had shone hours before, was now emptying of guests who, satisfied with the fundraising of the gala, were beginning their return home in cars and helicopters.

Only scattered groups remained near the dessert tables and liquor glasses, speaking in low voices, enveloped in the soft glow of the candelabras.

Issabelle advanced through the main hall with a measured step, her heart beating too slowly although her mind was spinning with dizzying speed. She held a half-empty glass of red wine: the crimson color of the liquid contrasted with the immaculate white of her dress.

Each sip seemed like a challenge: she had barely tasted the wine, but her hand trembled slightly under the tension of an incipient migraine.

The tumor, that silent enemy that pulsed inside her, reminded her with a sharp buzzing that her time was not yet over.

A stabbing pain shot through her right temple, and for an instant she lost her sense of direction: the columns tilted, the Renaissance tapestry spun on itself, and the carpet beneath her feet seemed to slide like a ribbon.

Issabelle stopped, leaning against the wall lined with golden boiserie. Her fingers sank into the silk of her dress, as if seeking anchorage.

She felt despair at not remembering where she was.

She closed her eyes tightly, took a deep breath, and silently reprimanded herself:

"Not here. Not now. This is not going to get the better of me!"

She wanted to fix her hair to regain her composure, but a flash of nausea forced her to bring her hand to her forehead. The glass trembled in her other hand, and a drop of wine escaped, deserting its contour towards the white dress.

From the other end of the corridor, Giordanno Lombardi saw her waver. His senses, already alert after that conversation in the hallway, caught the sudden rigidity of her posture and the slight tremor of her hand. Without thinking, he slipped between the last attendees like a silent predator, approaching her with an elegant step that hid his haste.

When Issabelle slightly regained her balance, she leaned her back against the wall and opened her eyes, she saw him: Giordanno's figure silhouetted against the light of the windows. His bearing was still impeccable, the silk shirt now stained with a blurred crimson tone where the wine from her glass had spilled.

He kept his hands slightly raised, a contained gesture of apology.

She never felt the moment her body collided with that man's, she could only perceive the delicious scent of his perfume.

"Mrs. Mancini," he said in a deep voice, barely a whisper. "Are you alright?"

Color rose to Issabelle's cheeks.

Doctor Moretti had warned her that the tumor could cause dizziness and vertigo, but she would not allow a trick of the mind to reveal her fragility. She straightened her back, took a breath, and smiled lightly:

"Just a stumble with my own clumsiness," she replied, leaning on one of the Venetian pillars. "The wine… nothing more."

Giordanno leaned over and, with a smooth movement, slipped a white linen handkerchief to offer it.

Issabelle took it with a slight tremor in her fingers. The handkerchief absorbed part of the stain on his shirt while Issabelle carefully cleaned the spilled wine.

"Allow me to compensate for this," she murmured. "I owe you a new shirt and..."

"Perhaps that dance," Giordanno interrupted with contained amusement.

"I'm not so convinced," she commented with a slight smile.

The way her voice vibrated against his body, the subtle echo of each word, made him shudder. There was something in her presence—a discreet warmth, a promise—that distanced him from the rigidity he maintained in his chest.

"A dance…" he repeated, holding the handkerchief that Issabelle handed him in his hand. "Seems like a fair deal to me."

"You'll have to earn it," Issabelle replied.

He responded with a measured smile, a tacit pact that shone in his eyes. In that instant, the distant murmur of the gala seemed to fade away, and only the two of them existed in that corridor.

The air smelled of gardenias and cider wine.

Gabrielle, Giordanno's assistant, appeared behind a column, observing the scene with curiosity. He approached with a cautious step and, upon reaching his boss, inclined his head toward him and asked in a murmur:

"Mr. Lombardi… what just happened? Why did you approach Mrs. Mancini so… abruptly?"

Giordanno listened to him without taking his eyes off Issabelle, and pressed his thumb against the stained handkerchief he still held.

"Gabrielle," he replied in a low voice, "do you see that determination in her gaze? That woman is not only married to my partner: she radiates a strength that defies any barrier."

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Strength? Or is it perhaps… pity?"

Giordanno gave a half smile.

"It's not pity. It's fascination. Her relentless control of the situation… her audacity to manipulate alliances during the gala… She knows exactly what she's doing. And I… want to see how far she goes."

Gabrielle hesitated for a moment, then nodded with respect.

"As you wish, sir."

Meanwhile, Issabelle was catching her breath. She rubbed her temples with a finger, holding back the pain that threatened to return. Giordanno, with an impeccable gesture, put the handkerchief in the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Does it hurt?" he inquired, attentive. "I can call the hotel doctors."

She shook her head, pressing her jaw to hide the shudder.

"No… just a dizziness. I'm fine."

He nodded, leaning against the opposite wall. The light from the candelabras illuminated his profile: the curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, the reflection in his eyes.

Issabelle felt a tug in her stomach, as if an electric current connected her to him.

"I must confess," Giordanno said softly, "that the first thing I noticed was her authority. Not that of a businessman's wife, but that of someone who forges their own path."

Issabelle felt a shiver run through her entire body. That was more than a compliment: it was a deep reading of her soul.

"I've had to learn fast," she replied. "Life taught me that if you don't take the reins of your own destiny, you get dragged along."

Giordanno took a step towards her. A cautious smile drew on his face.

"And now… what do you want?"

The question vibrated in the air. Issabelle looked at him, evaluating the nuance of his words. It was not a business proposal, but something more intimate, more risky.

"I want… to survive," she replied sincerely. "And, if possible, to flourish."

He smiled, a glimmer of complicity.

"Then we are aligned. Because that's exactly what I intend to do… with you."

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