After the crisis passed, Rossi Group headquarters returned to its usual, precisely ordered efficiency. But Elisa Rossi's office as Chairman had descended into an unprecedented, almost obsessive silence.
The blinds were angled to allow only a sliver of daylight to seep in, cutting a long, slowly moving band of light onto the dark carpet. Half of the massive desk had been cleared, replaced by a slanted drafting table. Around it lay scattered pencils of various hardness, fine pastels, soft chamois for blending, and countless crumpled or torn sketches.
Elisa stood at the center of this silence and disarray.
Her usual high heels were gone; she stood barefoot on the carpet. She wore an old linen shirt speckled with charcoal dust, sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing slender forearms with clear definition. Her long hair was pinned up carelessly with a simple pencil, a few stray strands clinging to her damp neck.
It had been seven days straight.
During the day, after handling essential company decisions, she poured all her remaining time into this space. At night, when the building was nearly empty, save for the faint green glow of safety lights at corridor ends, the light in this office remained on, burning until the deepest darkness before dawn swallowed her.
The inspiration had struck one morning in San Gimignano. Sitting in that not-quite-comfortable chair in the Costa kitchen, watching Maria's work-worn hands knead coarse flour, clear olive oil, crystalline sea salt, and rosemary just picked from the branch with a nearly sacred patience into a warm, airy dough brimming with life—something had struck her heart.
Not grandeur. Not rarity. Not the cold brilliance of carefully cut stones locked in a vault.
It was *warmth*. The soft rustle of sifting flour in the morning, the comforting, toasty aroma of focaccia rising in the oven, the small, charming chip gently worn into the edge of a rustic ceramic bowl by time, the impossibly soft wool socks embroidered with daisies that Maria handed her.
It was those rough, warm hands that had grasped her cold wrist, filled with unconditional protectiveness.
These images, scents, sensations swirled, fermented, and recombined in her mind day and night. She tried to capture that feeling—that solid, unadorned, yet more enduring warmth and protection than any gemstone.
On paper, the lines were hesitant at first, chaotic. She sketched rings encircled by wheat sheaves, textures mimicking the bubbles on focaccia, patterns of light slats from shutters… but it wasn't right. Too literal, too representational, losing the soul of that feeling.
She tore them up, started again. Tore them up, started again.
Charcoal dust smudged her fingertips, cheeks, even her temple. Eye strain and headaches from intense focus were pushed down with stronger black coffee. Anna carefully brought food, only to take it away almost untouched. On the rare occasions urgent matters required her attention, assistants would find their Chairman standing before her drafting table, her gaze startlingly sharp, yet seeming to look through them, into some distant dimension that belonged to her alone.
Lorenzo came by a few times.
The first time, he knocked and waited longer than usual before hearing a somewhat weary "come in" from inside. He saw Elisa standing by the drafting table and paused. She looked… different. Not the CEO commanding a boardroom, nor the woman relaxed in the San Gimignano morning light, but a creator completely immersed in her own world, enveloped in a burning intensity of focus.
"Do you need help organizing anything?" he asked, glancing at the littered drafts.
"No," Elisa didn't turn, her fingers tracing the edge of the paper as if feeling an invisible texture. "Just leave the marketing analysis on the desk."
The second time, he brought photocopies of literature on traditional Tuscan metalworking techniques, found in old university archives. "Might be useful," he said.
Elisa finally looked up from the table, meeting his eyes. They were bloodshot from lack of sleep, yet burned with a strange light deep within. "Thank you," she said, taking the papers, her icy fingertips brushing his knuckles inadvertently.
The third time, he came at nine in the evening, holding an insulated lunchbox. "Maria sent it. She said you'd definitely forgotten to eat again."
This time, Elisa didn't even respond. Her back was to him, shoulder blades slightly pronounced under her thin shirt like silent butterfly wings. The scratch of her pen on paper, *scratch, scratch*, was the only sound in the silent room.
Lorenzo stood for a moment, gently placed the lunchbox on the side table by the door, and retreated without a sound. The soft *click* of the door closing seemed not to reach her ears.
A strange, gnawing unease began to take root in his heart. Watching the light from her office burning almost day and night, recalling that intense focus that completely excluded him, the icy touch of her fingers and her distracted "thank you"… The crisis was over, their shared "battle" was done, life seemed to return to some kind of "normal." And on this normal path, was there… no longer a need for him to be so close?
He told himself this was pointless speculation, typical during a busy work phase. But returning alone to their spacious yet perpetually quiet, lifeless apartment with its cold modern kitchen and empty living room, the noisy warmth of the San Gimignano bakery, Maria's chatter, Gianluigi's hearty laughter, even Giulio's clamor when being chased… all stood in stark, vivid contrast.
A clear realization surfaced: she was sprinting forward, towards her own dazzling, star-filled destiny. And he seemed to have been left behind at that warm, yet ordinary starting point.
In the following days, this sense of "distance" only grew.
Elisa canceled two non-essential dinner plans, citing "a critical stage in the design." Their communication was limited to necessary work exchanges—brief, efficient, lacking warmth. Lorenzo tried to bring up San Gimignano, Maria's new coffee experiments, Giulio finally cleaning up the old oven in the backyard… but Elisa's responses were quickly redirected to work or interrupted by that unquenchable creative fire in her eyes.
He even began to wonder if those days in San Gimignano, those shared nights (despite the invisible line between them), that shared morning light and meals, that rare relaxation and softness in her eyes… were they just fleeting illusions under the pressure of crisis? Once normalcy returned, had the familiar, boundary-defined, everything-under-precise-control (including marriage) Elisa Rossi reasserted her dominance?
He adhered to his role, carefully tucking away the growing unease and faint sense of loss, handling his duties with steady composure, compiling the research on traditional techniques into a clearer report left at her door. Only, he stopped knocking on that door so readily.
What he didn't know was that Elisa, inside that room, was traversing an equally arduous path.
She had grasped the core feeling—"protective warmth." But translating it into the concrete language of jewelry felt nearly impossible. She tried using precious metals to mimic the soft, slightly charred texture of bread, using gem settings to capture the glint of morning dew on olive leaves, using complex metal structures to metaphorically embrace a family… attempt after attempt, failure after failure.
Fatigue and frustration gnawed at her in the silent depths of night. Sometimes she would stop, looking out at Milan's sleepless, glittering lights, only to see San Gimignano's clear starry sky and Maria's off-key, whispered lullaby from downstairs. And Lorenzo. His silent presence, the warm coffee he offered, the possibly useful materials he found… and now, his figure, shut out and growing distant.
She wanted to tell him it wasn't distance, just that this battle had to be faced alone. But the words were swallowed by the compulsion to capture the inspiration whole, without distraction. Just a bit longer, until the design was complete, until everything was clear…
Two weeks later, on a late afternoon, one of Milan's most historic palazzos was taken over by Rossi Jewels. Media, dignitaries, collectors, and industry leaders filled the space. The glow of crystal chandeliers danced with the jewels adorning the attendees; the air fizzed with champagne bubbles and the scent of expensive perfume.
This was no ordinary launch. There were no lengthy business reports, no exaggerated model parades. When the lights dimmed, a spotlight fell on the simple presentation platform at the front of the hall. Elisa Rossi walked out alone, wearing a simple black velvet gown. She looked a little thinner, faint shadows under her eyes, but her entire presence was one of quiet, potent strength, as if all her energy had been distilled into the light in her eyes.
"Ladies and gentlemen," her voice, amplified by the microphone, was clear and calm, "Today, Rossi Jewels presents not a collection, but a story. A story about 'home.'"
At the back of the hall, Lorenzo stood at the edge of the dimly lit guest area. Invited as "family," he had chosen this spot, a quiet observer. He watched the radiant woman on stage, familiar yet unfamiliar.
The massive screen behind Elisa lit up. No complex effects, just a series of simple yet poignant images: a pair of hands, lined with age yet infinitely gentle, kneading golden dough; morning sunlight cutting through blinds, casting warm stripes on old wooden floors; the small, charming chip on the edge of a rustic bowl; a pair of rough hands gently placing socks embroidered with daisies into another pair of pale, cold hands…
Finally, the image froze on a close-up sketch of a ring—an exceedingly simple band. But upon closer look, the inner surface of the band wasn't smooth. Instead, it was meticulously engraved with an incredibly fine texture, resembling the warm, resilient micro-pores of freshly baked bread crust. And on the outer surface, at a seemingly casual angle, was set a tiny, softly glowing moonstone, as if holding the guardianship of countless quiet nights.
A murmur of awe rippled through the hall.
Elisa turned to face the ring on the screen, her profile unusually soft in the light.
"We often praise jewelry for its eternity, its rarity and brilliance," her voice held a rare, almost lyrical quality. "But sometimes, eternity resides in the most ordinary moments. The faint sound of dough rising in a morning kitchen, a light left on for you deep in the night, a pair of hands—perhaps rough, yet infinitely warm—that hold yours when you are cold."
Her gaze seemed to travel over the sea of faces below, towards some distant, private memory.
"The 'Custodia' (Guardianship) collection draws inspiration from these moments. It does not seek visual spectacle, but the warmth of touch and the comfort of wear. We've used special alloys and ancient metal-hammering techniques to give the metal a near-skin-like warmth. We've forsaken ostentatious large stones, instead setting meticulously chosen moonstones, luminous mother-of-pearl, or the softest-hued colored gems into the structure in the most understated way, as if they were light born from the metal itself."
She paused. The hall was so quiet one could hear breathing.
"This collection is dedicated to all who give us 'guardianship.' And to the place, and the people there, who helped me rediscover the meaning of 'home' and 'warmth.'"
She spoke this last part softly, yet the words struck Lorenzo's heart like a stone, sending waves crashing through him.
He stood there, rooted. The familiar images on the screen—Maria's hands, the Costa kitchen, those ordinary details he took for granted yet never imagined would be so cherished—assaulted him like a tide. And her words, that unmistakable softness and gratitude in her voice… All the doubts, the unease, the self-perceived "estrangement" of the past two weeks shattered in that moment.
It wasn't distance. She was offering a grand, silent confession in the language of her world, her kingdom's most precious currency—her designs, her inspiration, her talent. The confession was for him, for his family, for the miracle named "home" they had given her.
A scalding heat surged behind his eyes. He quickly looked down, taking a deep breath to steady the overwhelming, almost溢出来的 emotion swelling in his chest.
Meanwhile, in San Gimignano, the cheers erupting in front of the Costa bakery's old TV nearly blew the roof off.
"Mamma mia! It's our kitchen! Our bread! My socks!" Maria laughed and cried, gripping Gianluigi's arm so tightly her nails nearly dug in.
Gianluigi, the stoic man, also had red-rimmed eyes, repeating, "That girl… that girl…"
Sofia shrieked, hugging Giulio. "Did you see! Zia was talking about us! Our family!"
Giulio, for once not joking around, stared at the artistic yet familiar images on screen, at Elisa's serene profile, murmuring, "She really… remembered everything."
Neighbors poured in upon hearing the noise. The small bakery was once again packed to bursting, every face alight with immense, shared pride and emotion.
The grandeur of the launch, broadcast live, reached the other side of the city.
In the study of the Visconti family estate, the large screen froze on the moment Elisa said, "to the place, and the people there, who helped me rediscover the meaning of 'home' and 'warmth.'" The expression on her face was one Alessandro Visconti had never seen in the twenty years he'd known her. It wasn't the mask of the business queen, nor social grace, but a genuine softness and sense of belonging radiating from within.
And this softness and belonging were clearly, inextricably linked to that man named Costa, standing in the shadows.
The amber liquid in Alessandro's crystal glass stopped swirling. He stared at the screen, his habitual, all-in-control smile long gone, replaced by a cold, almost rigid stillness. But his ice-blue eyes churned with a terrifying storm—fury at being utterly excluded, frustration at a meticulously laid plan failing to shake its target, and… a jealousy that burned through his very core, seeing that softness never shown to him poured out for another.
He saw Lorenzo standing at the back of the launch, saw the man's sudden stiffening and faint tremor in his shoulders when Elisa spoke those words. He also saw, when the event ended and Elisa was surrounded by the crowd, her gaze unconsciously, instinctively seeking through the throng towards where Lorenzo stood, that fleeting moment of search and ensuing reassurance.
"Custodia…" Alessandro rasped the name of the collection, his voice grating like sandpaper on metal. "You think you've found guardianship, haven't you, Elisa?"
He tilted his head back, draining the strong liquor in one go. The cold liquid was like fuel poured onto the poisonous flames of "possession" and "resentment" burning in his heart.
"When the real storm comes," he spoke to Elisa's frozen, smiling image on the screen, each word a curse, "let's see if that laughable 'warmth' from a bakery can protect you. And your… fortunate husband."
The study was unlit, only the cold light from the screen illuminating half his somber face. Outside, Milan's night sky remained brilliant, yet it seemed as if a low rumble of thunder rolled deep within the clouds.