Isabella wavered in and out of consciousness, lost in a dream so real it felt more like a memory than a fleeting illusion. Before her lay the Vega estate, bathed in an eerie golden light, as if the sun itself had paused in its decent, not wanting to let night take over. The air was thick with heat, heavy with an intangible something that clung to her skin: an anticipation, a whispered promise of things yet to be.
She stood outside his study, the heavy wooden doors ajar to invite her inside, yet to warn her to stay away. A movement quivered inside-a shadow, Alejandro, his figure outlined by the amber glow of the setting sun filtering through the bay window. His hands were clasped behind his back; his shoulders tense with the weight he could not see but which was pressing upon her chest.
She stepped inside, yet didn't remember willing her legs to take steps. The plush armchair materialized beneath her, and she found herself seated, fingers clasped tightly together as if waiting for something inevitable. Alejandro turned then, his dark eyes locking with hers, filled with something unreadable, something deeper, darker, with longing laced into it.
"Isabella," he said, his voice low but inflexible, as if a ripple stirred the calm surface of a pool. "We have to talk."
She opened her mouth, and between her lips the air shimmered with unspoken words. "About what?"
"About us. About the future."
The walls of the room extended and puckered, like the reflections on a sheet of water where many stones have been thrown in. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and she was not quite sure whether it was because of fear, because of hope, or for utterly different reasons. Freedom had been the thing she had dreamt of for years, but here, in this unreal space, the thought of leaving felt like a ghost whispering in her ear-too soft to grasp.
Alejandro moved a slow step closer to her, his eyes delving into hers. "I want to give you a choice," he said, his voice falling lower, rich as aged wine. "A real choice. Stay with me for thirty days. At the end, if you want to leave, then you can. No strings attached."
The words were sinking deep, wrapping around her like silk and chains all at once. She wanted so badly to believe him. But dreams were fragile things-made of memories and fears and desires all knotted together in ways too convoluted to unravel.
Then, suddenly, the scene was different. She was in her room; the air was thick with the aroma of roses. On her bedside table was a solitary flower, its deep crimson petals creating a gentle yet moving contrast with the white linens. When she reached for it, a reassuring warmth flowed across her chest as her fingertips brushed the velvety petals; the heat frightened her more than any cold ever could.
He was standing in the doorway, observing her, when a light wind rustled the voile curtains. Something in his eyes ran a shiver down her spine, a slow unraveling of the defenses so carefully erected.
"You keep running from this," he whispered, moving closer. "From me."
She swallowed hard. "And if I am?"
He reached for her then, his fingers trailing along her wrist, his touch feather light yet scorching. "Then tell me to stop," he challenged in a low voice, husky with need. "Tell me you don't want this."
Her breath caught, and her resolve slipped. The air between them began to vibrate, electric, until she felt herself leaning into him, her body betraying the misgivings in her head. His soft lips, reverent, first brushed against her temple; then, as if testing the grounds since she did not draw back, he kissed her deeper, his mouth slow and consuming, as with all the time in the world, going to savor every second of hers.
She melted into him, the press of his body against hers sending a shiver down her spine. His hands wove into her hair, tilting her head back, and she let herself get lost in him, in the quiet storm he carried inside. Time did not exist anymore; all there was left in their universe was this heat between them, promises unspoken that they whispered through the kisses, touching her as though she were precious, worth the wait.
Then the dream contorted again. A letter appeared in her hands, ink running across the parchment like spilled secrets. Giovanni's handwriting. A warning? A demand? The words swam before her eyes unread, yet weighted with meaning. The walls around her seemed to close in, the air growing heavier, suffocating.
She spun around, searching for Alejandro, but he wasn't there-dissolving into that sea of gold light, leaving her to the decision she did not know how to make.
Then, in one second, the dream shattered. Isabella came awake, jolting onto her elbow as her heart slammed against her ribs. The room was dark and quiet, but the echoes of her dream were still alive, a whisper in the back of her mind.
Was it a warning? A promise?