The sterile scent of the hospital felt familiar to me. Most people related it to illness and despair, but I saw it as a place of quiet purpose. Every three months, like clockwork, I, Isabella Rossi, would sit in a worn pleather chair, a needle in my arm, and watch my dark crimson blood fill a donation bag. It was a small act, a silent contribution to a world often too loud and harsh.
My blood type, Rh-null, was so rare that they called it "golden blood." The nurses treated me like a guest of honor, their gratitude clear. "You're a lifesaver, Bella," they would say. I smiled and shrugged, as it cost me nothing but an hour of my time.
"All done," the nurse said, skillfully removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to my arm. "Juice and cookies are waiting for you."
I was just getting off the chair when the calm of the donation center shattered. The double doors flew open, and a team of frantic doctors and nurses rushed in, wheeling a gurney. A man lay on it, his face ghostly pale, his expensive suit torn and stained with blood. The beeping of the heart monitor echoed the chaos.
"Multiple gunshot wounds, massive bleeding! We're losing him! We need O-negative, now!" a surgeon shouted.
Another doctor, checking a chart, cursed under his breath. "He's not O-negative! He's Rh-null! Get the reserves, check the registry, do something!"
My heart sank. Rh-null. The same as mine.
The head nurse from the blood bank, a kind woman named Maria, overheard. Her eyes widened when they caught mine. The unspoken question hung in the air. The man on the gurney was dying. My blood, the blood coursing through me, was likely the only thing in the city that could save him.
Before she could ask, I nodded. "Yes. Whatever you need."
There was no time for paperwork or protocols. They hurried me into a private room, and within minutes, another needle was in my other arm for an emergency transfusion. I didn't know who the man was, but as I lay there, listening to the frantic shouts from the operating theater, I prayed for him. I prayed that my small gift would give him a second chance.
An hour later, feeling drained but steady, I walked out into the corridor. The frantic energy had turned into a tense silence. Leaning against the wall opposite the operating room was a tall man who seemed carved from stone. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit that did nothing to hide his power. His jaw was tight, and his expression was unreadable, but his presence seemed to draw the air from the hallway. He was a guardian, watching everything, and our eyes met for a fleeting second. A shiver I couldn't explain ran down my spine. I quickly looked away and hurried towards the exit, the image of that intense man lodged in my mind.
For the next three days, my life was filled with anxiety. It had nothing to do with the man in the hospital and everything to do with my best friend, Aria Valenti. She was missing.
It began subtly. A missed good morning text. Then she didn't show up for our shared Jurisprudence lecture. I called her phone; it went straight to voicemail. I told myself she was busy, maybe she had spent the night at the library or with that art student she'd been flirting with. But when I returned to our small off-campus apartment that evening, her bed was untouched. Her textbook lay open on her desk, a pen marking her place mid-sentence.
Aria wouldn't just leave. Not without a word. We weren't just roommates; we were sisters in every way that mattered. We met in our first year as foreign students—me from South America and her from a quiet part of Italy—lost in a new country. We bonded over late-night study sessions, cheap wine, and our mutual disdain for the city's most notorious billionaire, Dante Moretti.
His face appeared on every magazine cover. His name was whispered in classrooms and boardrooms with awe and fear. He was a ruthless corporate titan, a predator who built his empire on the ruins of his competition. We'd spent countless hours debating his latest hostile takeover, with me raging about his lack of ethics and Aria listening thoughtfully, her expression almost sad. She hated what he stood for as much as I did.
By the fourth day, worry morphed into pure fear. I called her family back in Italy—the number she gave me for her 'aunt'—but it was disconnected. I filed a missing person's report, but the police were dismissive. "She's 22, miss," the officer sighed. "She's probably on a weekend trip. She'll turn up."
I knew better. Something was wrong.
As I walked back from the police station, my mind filled with worst-case scenarios, a sleek black sedan pulled up beside me, its engine humming softly. The back window slid down, and my heart stopped.
It was the man from the hospital. The stone-faced sentinel.
"Isabella Rossi," he said, his voice a low, gravelly tone. It wasn't a question.
I tightened my grip on my bag, my knuckles turning white. "Who are you? Are you following me?"
He ignored my questions, his gaze steady. "My boss would like to see you."
I scoffed, anger boiling inside me. "Your boss? I don't know you, and I definitely don't know your boss. Leave me alone."
I turned to walk away, my steps quick and resolute. I expected him to get out of the car, to grab my arm, to do something. But he didn't. The car just followed me silently.
"He knows you're looking for Aria Valenti," the man called out.
I froze, my back to him. Every muscle in my body went tense. How did he know that? How did he know Aria's name?
I turned back slowly, fear battling a sliver of hope. "What do you know about Aria?"
The man's face was emotionless, but his eyes hinted at something—pity, perhaps. "My boss has the answers you're looking for. He is waiting."
I hated this. I hated feeling powerless and manipulated. But the thought of Aria, alone and possibly in danger, overshadowed everything else. Swallowing my pride and fear, I approached the car and got in. I had no idea that I was stepping into a world of gilded cages and dangerous secrets, a world ruled by the very man I despised most.