Morning light splintered into blinding fragments on the stained glass. Elisa stared blankly at her own reflection in the coffee cup. The words from last night—"I want to change our relationship"—still hung in the air between them, like raindrops poised, trembling, refusing to fall.
She looked up. Lorenzo sat across the long table, meticulously spreading olive paste on a piece of focaccia. His movements were unnaturally slow, as if the bread were some delicate archival document requiring precise handling. Only the slight bob of his Adam's apple betrayed a shared unease.
Amid the faint clinking of cutlery, Massimo mumbled through a mouthful of bacon, "Brother-in-law, where should I start the internship today? Should I go and sort out the—"
"Quiet." The grandfather's voice wasn't loud, but it instantly stilled the entire breakfast room.
The old man set down his *Financial Daily*. His gaze, behind gold-rimmed glasses, swept from Elisa to Lorenzo before finally settling on the newspaper's second page. He said nothing, simply turned the paper around and slid it across the polished mahogany surface.
The gesture was light, yet the page seemed to carry a tangible weight.
Elisa lowered her eyes. The front page still glorified last night's Visconti gala, featuring a photo of Alessandro helping her down the steps—framed like a movie poster. But below it, the second page bore a banner headline:
*"Conscience or Vendetta? Independent Brand Founder Accuses Rossi Jewels of Fraud"*
The subheading was smaller, sharper: *"Former Partner Produces Internal Documents: Synthetic Gems Passed as Natural Treasures, Century-Old Brand in Crisis of Trust."*
Her hand moved before her mind did—her fingertips brushed against the bone china handle, producing a faint, rhythmic click. Once, twice, three times. On the fourth, Lorenzo's hand suddenly reached across the table and gently covered her wrist.
His palm was warm, carrying the simple, earthy scent of olive paste and dough.
"The documents are forged," Elisa said, her voice calmer than she'd expected.
"Naturally." Grandfather removed his glasses, polishing them slowly with a cloth. "But the timing is too perfect. As if someone was waiting with a stopwatch—for last night's Visconti public declaration, for this morning when the whole world is watching Rossi become a laughingstock."
Sophia had been sitting silently at the far end of the table. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze, which swept past Elisa and settled on the gathering morning mist outside the window.
"Watch out for the reporters on your way out," she said, her voice mist-veiled. "By now... they've probably even measured the height of the backyard wall."
As the car passed through the iron gates, the first wave of reporters was already blocking the intersection.
Camera flashes surged forward, white and glaring, like sudden summer rain pelting the windows. Anna's voice on the phone was tight: "The main entrance is impassable. They're staking out the underground garage exit too. Security suggests... you avoid the company today."
"Turn around," Elisa said. "Head to the west logistics entrance."
The driver hesitated, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Lorenzo was already swiping through his tablet, its cold glow highlighting his tense jawline. "It started trending on social media around 3 a.m. Hashtag views are over ten million. The whistleblower is Carlo Bergamo—founder of Bergamo Jewelry. The brand we evaluated for acquisition three years ago."
"I remember," Elisa closed her eyes briefly. "I rejected him because his designs felt mass-produced. Cheap."
"He's now claiming you rejected him because you discovered his 'conscience'—because he refused to participate in the fraud." Lorenzo turned the tablet toward her.
On screen, a middle-aged man with overly neat hair was sobbing for the camera. Behind him was a cramped office wallpapered with plaques: "Best Innovation Award," "Artisan Spirit." The performance was exaggerated, but effective—comments were already flooding in: "Small business vs. corporate giant," "Courageous."
"To the company," Elisa opened her eyes. "If we turn back now, they'll write that I 'fled in guilt.'"
As the car edged through the crowd, someone pounded on the window. Lorenzo shifted, blocking the glass on her side, his arm braced against the headrest behind her—an instinctive, protective gesture. Through his suit jacket, she caught a faint scent, like old books mixed with sandalwood soap.
"Signora Elisa! Are the fraud allegations true?"
"Will the Visconti Bank fund partnership be canceled?"
"Is your marriage also part of a PR strategy—"
The questions stabbed in like knives. Lorenzo suddenly rolled down the window—just ten centimeters, enough for his voice to carry out, clear and cold:
"Rossi Group will issue an official statement within the hour. Until then, any speculation is disrespectful to the facts. Step aside."
As the window rose, Elisa saw his clenched fist, knuckles white.
The conference room was over-air-conditioned.
Caterina slammed a stack of files onto the table. "Complete forgeries. The letterhead uses the logo from five years ago. The VP who supposedly signed off in the approval section left three years back—how can something this full of holes make headlines?"
"Because people want to see a downfall," the PR director wiped his brow. "Especially... especially after last night's romantic scene with the Visconti heir."
"Romantic?" Elisa repeated the word, her lips curling into a humorless smile. "That was a hunt."
The muted TV on the wall played Carlo's press conference. The man was wiping tears, behind him an enlarged "internal document" screenshot. Everyone in the room watched the screen, yet kept stealing glances at Elisa—waiting to see if she'd panic, if she'd crack.
Only Lorenzo was watching the cup by her hand.
She hadn't taken a sip, yet the water surface trembled slightly. Fine ripples, circling outward, betraying that her other hand, hidden beneath the table, was shaking. Shaking, yet her back remained straight, her chin lifted at that flawless angle she'd practiced for a decade.
"Three countermeasures," Elisa began, her voice cutting through the whispers. "First, Legal sends a cease-and-desist within the hour for defamation, with authentic documents for comparison. Second, the Production Director goes to the factory now and starts a live stream showing the entire process from raw materials to quality control. Third—"
She paused, her gaze sweeping the long table.
"Client Relations contacts every customer who purchased our haute couture line in the past five years. Ask them to voluntarily provide testimonials. Select the ten most credible for potential interviews."
"Elisa," Caterina gently cautioned, "That pulls our clients into this. It's risky—"
"The risk lies in silence," Elisa stood up, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. "Carlo is betting I won't dare escalate. I will make sure the whole world watches—to see who the real liar is."
As she turned, Lorenzo stood as well.
"I'm coming with you to the factory."
"It's not necessary—"
"It is," he interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "If technical questions come up during the stream, you'll need someone who can explain clearly. And I," he paused, "happen to have read some professional literature on gemstone identification."
The room fell silent for a moment. Then someone murmured, "But Signor Lorenzo... you're an archivist..."
"Archivists are best at two things," Lorenzo looked directly at the speaker, his expression open. "First, discerning authenticity. Second, explaining complex matters clearly."
Elisa studied him. Morning light seeped through the blinds, carving a line of shadow and light across his profile. This man, who had entered her life because of a contract, was now standing here, offering to face a meticulously planned siege with her.
She gave a single nod.
Just as the car to the factory left the garage, Anna called again. This time, her voice held genuine panic: "At the estate... reporters scaled the garden wall. Signora Sophia has called the police, but the entrance is swarmed with live broadcast vans. The police are trying to get media back to public areas, but they're not listening."
The car screen lit up with a live feed. Outside the Rossi family's 19th-century wrought-iron gates, a dark crowd pressed forward. Someone had even brought a folding ladder, cameras aiming over the wall toward Sophia's prized rose bushes.
Elisa took a deep breath and called the butler. "Take Mother and Massimo to the hotel through the wine cellar passage—you know which one. And Grandfather?"
"The old master refuses to leave," the butler whispered. "He says... this house has seen war. It doesn't fear a few people with microphones."
Suddenly, Grandfather's aged yet robust voice came through, slightly distant but clear: "Elisa, don't come back tonight. Go to the Costa house."
She gripped the phone tighter. "I can't bring trouble to them—"
"It's precisely in times of trouble that you see what family truly means," Grandfather paused. "Or do you still believe it's just a contract?"
The call ended.
An abrupt quiet filled the car, broken only by the engine's hum. Elisa stared at the familiar streets flashing by—luxury boutiques, galleries, cafes—all now seeming unreal, as if viewed through frosted glass.
"If you'd prefer," Lorenzo spoke suddenly, "I can take you to a hotel. My family's home... is quite modest. And my parents..."
"Will they see me as a burden?" Elisa asked, her voice almost inaudible.
Lorenzo was silent for a long time. So long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he said:
"My mother texted me last night before bed, asking if you like hazelnut biscuits. She said you're too thin and need feeding."
Elisa turned sharply to look at him.
"My father went to the town printer's first thing this morning and bought every newspaper running this story," Lorenzo kept his eyes on the road ahead, his profile stark in the fading light. "He said he's keeping them, so when the truth comes out, he can burn them in front of the whole town. They won't see you as a burden, Elisa. They'll only worry for you."
The car merged onto the highway leading out of the city. The distant city lights thinned, replaced by the gentle contours of the Tuscan hills. Darkness settled completely, the first star appearing in the deep purple sky.
Finally, Elisa allowed herself to sink back into the seat and close her eyes.
"Then let's go," she said softly. "To your home."
The car wound through the last stretch of olive groves. The stone towers of San Gimignano emerged against the night sky like silent sentinels guarding the scattered lights on the hill.
And one of those lights was waiting for her.