There’s a smile in her voice when she says: “That’s true.” Then softer,
“I love you, Sorella. No matter what.”
We’ve called each otherSorellaandSorellinasince childhood—nicknames from a Italian fairytale movie we used to watch over and over again. The way they sounded—musical, magical—felt perfect. Ours. Like something stitched into our Latin roots.”
“I love you too, Sorellina” I whisper.
* * *
After the call, I sit there for a while, staring at the window, at the city that never stops moving.
Her words keep circling in my head.
Monsters only have power in the dark.
I don’t know if I believe that yet. But somehow, it feels a little less suffocating to breathe.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed.
My body feels heavy, like I’ve aged a decade overnight. I move on instinct—shower, makeup, hair. Layer after layer, I rebuild the armor.
My suit today is sharp—navy blue, clean lines and a cinched waist that makes me look more in control than I feel. A muted red lipstick, soft and understated. A touch of mascara just enough to open my eyes. And around my wrist, a thin red bracelet—barely visible, but always there.
Once, I used to wear red boldly.
Now, it’s just a quiet reminder of the girl I used to be.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is polished, composed.
Unbreakable.
But under the surface, I know better. Still, I keep moving.
By the time I step into the elevator, my expression is calm, distant—perfect.
I walk into the office as if nothing happened.
Greg waves from across the floor, too caught up in a call to notice much. Adriana flashes me a brief smile.
Everything feels… normal.
Until it isn’t.
“Della,” Greg calls out as soon as he hangs up, his tone bright. “We’ve got a client meeting in ten. Big one.”
I nod, keeping my features smooth.
Ten minutes later, I’m seated in the conference room—laptop open, the client sheet pulled up in a side tab, notes highlighted, ready to play my part.
I straighten in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, smoothing the hem of my dress. A slow breath in. Then a glance at the door.
And then he walks in.
Dorian Marshall.
Dressed head-to-toe in black—tailored charcoal suit, open-collared shirt, no tie. Effortless. Controlled. Like he owns the room. What room?! The whole freakin’ building.
