Chapter 2 The Man She Ran From

Two nights later, Isabella stood in front of Sofia's mirror, just staring. The figure in the glass nearly resembled a person she didn't recognize, it was merely a female figure wearing a navy blue gown, uncomplicated yet graceful, nothing flashy. She had deliberately selected the dress, something meant to blend in; professional and muted not to catch the eye.

Tonight wasn't about putting on a show, it was about getting the job done and then exiting silently. All the same, nervousness churned in her belly and had not released its grip since sunrise.

"Girl, you look like you're on your way to your own funeral." Sofia stood in the doorway as she observed her with her arms folded.

"Is it that obvious?" Isabella asked, making an effort to smile.

"You appear pale."

"I'm fine."

Sofia refused to buy it. "Bella."

"I said I'm fine," Isabella repeated, a bit softer. But honestly, she didn't know what emotions she had. Could it be fear? Maybe. Or perhaps something older, that lingering ache she believed she had long since buried.

The most recent time she came into Lorenzo De Luca's world, she stood as his bride. Naïve. Full of hope but still utterly terrified. Now, that young woman was no longer there.

"Stick to the plan," Sofia said. "You work on the painting, collect your fee and lave."

"That's the only thing I'm doing."

"And if you see him?"

Isabella hesitated for a moment, then grabbed her coat. "I won't."

******

The magnificent Palazzo Verani was drenched in warm golden light set against a dark Milan sky. Luxury cars pulled up with men and women in elegant outfits trooping gracefully into the venue with giggles bouncing around and camera shutters clicking. The De Luca Foundation Gala brought together Italy's top personalities; public figures, tycoons and socialites, in fact if they were significant, they were in attendance.

Isabella kept a low profile as she moved stealthily by the main entrance alongside the event workers. There were no cameras or no flashy items shooting in her direction which was just perfect.

Inside, the palace looked like something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers were glistening beneath painted ceilings, polished marble floors radiated and columns rose high. Their murmurs buzzed across the ballroom, yet Isabella hardly noticed any of it, all her thoughts were just fixed on the modest exhibition space beside the main hall; the place where her real work was waiting.

The curator saw her immediately she walked in.

"Hii, you must be Elena Rossi. We're so grateful you took the offer" she clipped, stopping in front of Isabella.

Isabella nodded. "It's an honor."

On a display easel, the painting waited under a spotlight. She moved closer as she could see just how fragile and beautiful it was, the gentle brushstrokes and colors that were centuries old, even beneath the protective cover.

For a second, the tightness in her chest eased up. This was her world. Artwork never misled, has never caused you pain and never tried to kill you in your sleep.

"Take your time," the curator said, stepping out of the room.

Isabella was alone. She bunched up her sleeves and laid out her tools; Cleaning brush, rag, cleaning solvent. The work commenced minutes slipping by almost an hour.

Music and laughter drifted in from the main ballroom making Isabella actually feel herself almost relaxed.

Then something shifted slightly, she heard footsteps inching closer behind her and the quiet murmur coming from the staff nearby. The air seemed to freeze.

Isabella's hand stopped mid-motion as the icy realization crept down her spine. She knew this feeling; that sensation of someone watching her. Slowly, she turned around.

A towering figure occupied the entrance, his broad shoulders clad in a black suit exuding dominance. His dark-coloured hair, slicked back crowned his handsome face with a strong jawline. He still had those razor-sharp blue eyes that made Matteo's face flicker across her mind.

Isabella could barely breathe as neither of them moved

Lorenzo De Luca.

He hadn't changed much, if anything, he looked older, sharper, quieter and even more dangerous and those eyes?? They definitely remembered everything. The staff faded out of the room, melting away from the moment because nobody wanted to witness this.

Lorenzo stepped closer, never taking his eyes off her. He stopped just a few feet away but just close enough for Isabella to feel the gravity between them.

He didn't speak right away. He just studied her, as if making sure she was real. Alive.

"Hello, Isabella." came his voice, low and gentle but terrifying.

Her heart slammed in her chest.

She made herself stand straight. "Good evening," she answered softly.

Something flashed in his expression, maybe amusement, disbelief or anger. He edged closer.

"You're supposed to be dead." he replied, the words hung in the air, sharp and cold.

Isabella swallowed. "So I've heard."

Lorenzo's gaze hardened. He had endured five years of questions and losses and now the woman who vanished was just standing here, acting like it was nothing.

"Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my own wife?" His voice went even lower.

Wife. That word stung.

Isabella steadied her voice. "I'm not your wife anymore."

Lorenzo tilted his head, eyes darkening. "Legally," he said, "you are."

Her pulse thudded louder.

She needed space. "I'm working," she said, turning back toward the painting. "If you'll excuse me"

But his hand closed around her wrist before she could move, he was not rough, but solid and just enough to stop her cold, as a spark of tension jolted through them both.

Isabella looked up slowly.

"You disappeared for five years." Lorenzo's voice was soft but utterly certain as his grip tightened just a little.

"And now you think you can walk away again?"

Isabella's heart hammered.

She never planned for this reunion, never expected the weight of his stare or the cold certainty in his voice.

"Let go," she whispered.

Lorenzo watched her for another moment, then released her wrist but his next words hit harder.

"Enjoy the rest of the evening," he said quietly. Then, after a pause, "Because when this gala ends..." He locked eyes with her.

"You're coming home with me." he turned,returning the same way he had come.

For the first time in five years, something became horribly clear to Isabella; escaping Lorenzo De Luca once had been a miracle.

But getting away again? That might be impossible.