Milan was a city of noise and beauty.
It buzzed with fashion, football, and the constant hum of people trying to prove they belonged in a world that didn't stop for anyone. He should've felt at home here,he had once. But this time, he arrived with the unease of a man looking for something he couldn't name.
The charity event was just days away, and the press already swarmed the city with stories about his upcoming appearance. Some speculated about his recent silence, his uncharacteristic lack of social media updates, his withdrawn behavior at training.
No one knew that the only thing echoing in his mind was a name.
Eliana.
He didn't tell his agent why he agreed to sponsor this particular art auction, hosted by a gallery he had no prior ties to. He just knew,something told him to be there.
And every night since arriving, he dreamed of her.
Not just the night in the hotel,but the park in Toronto. The little girl with quiet eyes and a gentle voice. The child who once told him she would protect him when the world turned cruel.
Could they really be the same?
Or was his guilt twisting memory and lust into fantasy?
She almost didn't come.
The invitation sat on her table for days before she gave in. Her cousin Valeria didn't stop pushing, of course.
"Come on, you need this. Milan, art, elegance,it'll distract you. You'll feel alive again."
Alive?
She didn't feel dead. Just... suspended. Like a ghost of herself, stuck between a heartbreak no one knew she carried and a longing she had no right to still feel.
She didn't dress up for the man. She came for herself.
That's what she told the mirror, anyway, as she slipped into the silk dress that clung to her body like a second skin. The fabric was deep navy, almost black under low lighting,simple, understated elegance.
But as she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair back from her face, a part of her whispered, What if he's there?
And worse still: What if he's not?
The gallery was warm with bodies and artificial smiles.
He shook hands, posed for pictures, smiled at donors, and let the curated version of himself take over. The world loved Kai Allard, the striker with golden boots and a diamond-cut jawline. But tonight, his attention was split.
He wasn't looking for buyers. Or press.
He was scanning the crowd.
Faces blurred as his eyes swept the room again. He didn't know what he expected,didn't even know if she was here,but his pulse quickened with every passing moment, as if his blood already knew she was near.
And then,
A scent.
Not perfume. Something softer. Warmer.
Memory.
He turned his head toward the staircase on the far side of the gallery.
He didn't see her yet.
But he felt her.
She saw him before he saw her.
Of course she did.
He was the star of the room. The magnetic center of every orbit.
He looked… perfect. Effortlessly handsome in a black-on-black suit, his hair slightly tousled, stubble rough against his sharp jaw. He moved with quiet authority, every step fluid like he was walking a pitch, not a parquet floor.
Her throat tightened.
He was too close. Too real.
She thought she could handle it. Thought time had thickened her skin. But now, just feet away, it cracked open all over again.
She wasn't ready.
Not for the eyes that wouldn't recognize her.
Not for the voice that once moaned her name and now wouldn't remember why.
She turned, heart in her throat, and walked away,down a quiet hallway toward the side exhibit, desperate for a moment of silence.
She passed him.
He didn't see her face,just the trail of her dress, the slope of her neck, the glint of dark hair caught under the chandelier light.
But something twisted in his chest like déjà vu.
His breath hitched.
It was nothing. A stranger. Another beautiful woman.
But his feet moved on their own.
And before he could stop himself, he followed.