“Happy birthday,” Damian and I said together.
Aleandro was striking, dark brown hair falling in soft waves around his face, eyes the green of polished emerald, his smile brimming with confidence. He took my hand with elegant ease and brushed a polite kiss across my fingers.
“The honor is mine.”
“Come inside. I’m eager to hear your story.”
The housekeeper opened the door, and Bellini gestured warmly for us to follow. The foyer was awash in sunlight pouring through tall windows. Shelves groaned under the weight of antique books and artifacts. A vast fireplace dominated the living room, and dozens of paintings adorned the walls. The air carried the scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries.
“Please, have a seat,” the archaeologist said, pointing to an inviting sitting area. “I hope you find it pleasant here.”
Damian and I settled onto a sofa while the housekeeper offered coffee and delicate, artfully arranged cookies.
“Your home is wonderful,” I told him sincerely.
“You like it?” Damian asked.
I turned to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever stepped into a more beautiful house. It must feel extraordinary to live here.”
Bellini smiled modestly. “It has its advantages. But the true gift is the peace—it leaves space to think, to work.”
Damian, carrying the artifact in a bag, set it carefully on the table. He spoke briefly, then withdrew the Phoenix pendant and placed it in Bellini’s hands. The older man studied the piece intently, peering over his glasses before rising to his feet.
“I believe you are both correct in your assumption,” he said in a reverent whisper. “Please, follow me.”
Damian slung his laptop bag over his shoulder, and together we followed Bellini and his son. The professor’s research room was a strange harmony of relics and technology. Towering shelves brimmed with prehistoric bone fragments, ancient ceramics, and weathered statues from forgotten civilizations. At the center, a massive worktable was buried beneath maps, books, sketches, magnifying glasses, and brittle manuscripts. The walls were layered with site maps and photographs; in one corner, a computer and printer waited among the ruins of the past. Even the air seemed to whisper the stories of lost ages.
Damian opened his laptop on the worktable. The screen woke and filled with documents and photographs from recent expeditions. Mr. Bellini lowered himself into a chair, eyes bright as he scrolled through the digitized reports. With deliberate care, he lifted the Phoenix to the light, matching its details against theimages on the screen. His expression tightened, then he reached for several old books on a nearby shelf.
“I’d like to check a few more things,” Bellini said. “That may take some time.”
While he worked, his son stepped toward me. “Would you like to see my father’s collection? We have some remarkable treasures.”
“I’d love to.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damian’s jaw harden. I answered with my most dazzling smile and followed Aleandro out of the room.
He led me to a smaller, climate-controlled building beside the main house. Inside, the variety of carefully displayed artifacts stunned me. Glass cases and shelves held ancient pottery, finely carved figurines, fragile scrolls. Soft lights played over the relics until the remnants of history gleamed as if they were breathing. I could hardly believe my eyes. This collection felt like the accumulation of a lifetime spent hunting the past.
Aleandro spoke with fervor, guiding me from piece to piece. His enthusiasm hooked me; soon I was absorbed, hanging on the stories behind each object. There was an easy rhythm between us as he showed me his favorites and I listened, intent.
We’d just burst into laughter over a bizarre excavation anecdote when Damian appeared in the doorway—sharp, tense. His eyes locked on me, and my heartbeat skipped.
“Aleandro, your father needs you for a moment,” Damian said flatly.
“Of course. Daisy and I were just admiring the collection. You should look too—new pieces may have been added since your last visit.”
“Maybe later,” Damian replied curtly. “I’ll follow with Daisy in a moment.”
“No problem.”
The instant Aleandro turned, Damian grabbed my arm and pulled me closer.
“I can’t stand it when another man looks at you like that.” His voice was controlled, his gaze fixed on me with a dangerous intensity.
“You’re overreacting.” I tried to smile—thin, shaky—but it died before it reached my lips. My voice betrayed me with a tremor. “Let me go.”
“I think you still don’t understand,” he murmured. “You want me. You want what I am. And that means you want me on my terms.”
