Giorgio's voice cut through my calculations like a blade through silk, pulling me back from the depths of my planning. He stood too close—close enough that I could smell his cologne, that expensive blend of sandalwood and ambition. His hand reached out, the gesture meant to appear comforting, proprietary.
I stepped back. Fast enough to make him pause. Fast enough to see the flicker of confusion cross his handsome features.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice carrying the perfect weight of exhaustion. "Just a little tired."
I did not wait for a response. I left the dining room with measured steps, neither hurried nor hesitant—the walk of a woman who had nothing to hide and nothing to prove.
The night air hit my skin like a benediction. Cold. Clean. Carrying only the sound of wind through the cypress trees and the distant rhythm of waves against the estate's private dock. Standing in the shadows of the colonnade, I felt a clarity I had never known before—sharp as a stiletto, absolute as death.
For the first time in years, I could breathe.
I woke early the next morning, but still did not manage to avoid him.