As night deepened, the city fell into silence—as if conspiring to cover someone's secrets beneath its hush.
The streetlamps glowed faintly.
Her reflection in the glass looked distant, unfamiliar, and still.
At the private terminal of Gimpo Airport, far from the city's pulse, the world felt suspended—a liminal space, secret and still.
At the edge of the runway, a black jet already waited, engines humming low, marked with the crest of the Belloni syndicate.
Celeste gathered her hair into a low tie and pulled her coat closed.
Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with quiet resolve.
Even if I can't return, I will see this through to the end.
A soft red light swept across her feet.
It marked the beginning of a journey not of duty, nor empire—but of her own choosing.
The jet rose, cutting through the cloud line like a shadow across ink.
Above, the sky was a deep and unbroken blue-black.
The silhouette of the aircraft glided through it, graceful and unspeaking.
She sat by the window, a mug of herbal tea cradled in her hands instead of wine.
Classical music whispered through the dimly lit cabin.
And then—A single message appeared, silent as a breath:
Luca B." My man will meet you when you land. Princess."
She exhaled softly.
Then, with one motion, turned off the cabin light and closed her eyes.
Rest, if only for a moment, while the world still allowed it.
Italy — Dawn's Breath
The plane touched down quietly on a private airstrip in central Italy.
Too early for morning, too late for night.
The perimeter was veiled in mist.
The few lamps that remained lit glowed faintly through the haze.
A black, armored SUV waited at the far edge of the tarmac.
A middle-aged man, presumably Luca's, opened the door in silence.
Belloni Estate
As the gates parted and the vehicle entered, she was met with the sheer grandeur of a nobleman's villa—a structure that held the weight of an old world without slipping into ostentation.
The walls were built from Tuscan stone, weathered but proud.
Most windows had been replaced with reinforced glass.
Marble fountains stood quietly in the courtyard.
Security cameras peeked discreetly from every column.
It was majestic—yet oddly concealed.
A perfect refuge for a man who lived behind layers.
Celeste noticed it at once: the gardeners, the stewards—their eyes were not those of house staff.
They moved like trained soldiers.
As the door opened, a blend of scents met her: sandalwood, aged wine, and leather softened by time.
But over all of it, an invisible heaviness.
Silence, used like a weapon.
Guided wordlessly through the hall, she walked across polished marble, past still-life paintings by Florentine hands, and columns that made time feel stilled.
The Drawing Room — Face to Face
A heavy leather door opened.
She stepped into the final silence.
The room was wide and darkly elegant.
Morning light bled through half-drawn curtains, spilling softly onto the floor.
Across the room, seated in shadowed calm—Luca Belloni.
A man wrapped in midnight green, his silk shirt open at the throat, a wine-colored jacket thrown effortlessly across his frame.
Just behind his left ear—faint, almost forgotten—a tattoo marked him.
He rose slowly as she entered.
"Langley."
His voice was smooth, rich with unspoken meanings.
"I didn't expect the princess herself to come all this way."
She bowed her head, silently, and took the seat across from him.
On the table between them: a cup of espresso already poured, an unsealed bottle of aged Nebbiolo, and a dish of freshly cut Italian figs.
"…We didn't get to speak properly at the charity event,"
she said evenly.
Every syllable poised—layered.
Luca smiled, but it held no warmth.
"Then let's speak now."
He leaned back, fingertips grazing the crystal decanter.
"You didn't come all this way for sentiment. Let's not waste time pretending."
Their eyes met.
And in the silence between them—ripe figs and blood-red wine stood witness.
The game had begun.