The air conditioning in the Rossi Group boardroom was set so low it felt capable of freezing time itself. The surface of the long conference table was polished to a mirror sheen, yet the faces it reflected were all strained and grim.
The air was thick with the bitter scent of cigar smoke, the lingering notes of expensive perfume, and something more pungent—the acrid smell of trust, burned to a crisp. Vittorio Rossi sat at the head of the table, holding an unlit cigar between his fingers, rotating the hard wood slowly as if weighing a person's fate. His face, normally like Tuscan granite, was now so cold it seemed dusted with frost.
Elisa sat in the first seat to his left, her back as straight and immovable as one of Milan Cathedral's ancient pillars. But the observant would notice her index finger beneath the table, tapping rhythmically against her knee—one, two, three, four, five. Pause. Then again. It was a habit from childhood; the tighter she wound inside, the lighter and more patterned the tap.
Before her lay the damned briefing document, marked with glaring red highlights: "Acquisition of Le Petit Royaume Atelier Failed," "Aurora's Core Team Defects En Masse to Leval," "Market Rumors Cause Abnormal Stock Volatility"… Each red mark was a slap, resounding across the face of the Rossi family, and across her own face as the CEO who had vowed to "rebuild the dynasty."
"So," Vittorio finally spoke, his voice not loud but landing like a hammer on every eardrum, "can anyone explain to me how a project named 'Phoenix,' which was supposed to be hidden in the darkest, safest nest, with not a feather to be seen, has become a roast chicken on Leval Group's dinner table? Hmm?" His ice-blue eyes, like frozen lakes, swept slowly across the room, finally settling on Elisa. "Elisa, that wasn't the assurance you gave me in the study. You said, 'a leak is suicide.' Now, was the knife for that suicide handed to us by someone else, or did someone from our own house offer up their own neck?"
Dead silence filled the boardroom, broken only by the monotonous hum of the central air conditioning, like a giant, dying beehive.
Elisa met her grandfather's gaze, her throat dry, but she forced her voice steady. "Nonno, I am investigating the leak with full force. The scope—"
"The scope?!" Uncle Marco slammed a meaty hand on the table, his perpetually oily face flushed crimson as if he'd finally found a vent. "What other bloody 'scope' could there be?! It was just the three of you in the study that day! Would the old man stab his own heart?!" His stubby finger jabbed accusingly toward Lorenzo, seated slightly behind Elisa. "So it's bloody obvious who's left! Elisa, I told you, you're young, ambition is fine, but your judgment of people… Hmph! Last time it was dirty water from outside; this time the rain's leaking from our own roof! And from the most critical beam, no less!"
His words were crude and venomous, a rusted saw grating through the quiet room. Several directors lowered their heads, exchanged glances, or coughed discreetly. The atmosphere of suspicion spread like ink in clear water.
"Uncle Marco," Elisa's voice turned cold, the tapping beneath the table ceasing. "You need evidence to make such accusations."
"Evidence? What more evidence do you need?" Another balding director, Pierre, chimed in with a sneer, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses slowly. "Leval's every move lands exactly where we were about to step. The atelier, the ad agency, even the funding rumors… If someone hasn't photocopied our battle plans and delivered them, I'll eat this mahogany table! The question isn't *if* there's a mole, but *where* the mole is sitting!" His gaze, magnified by the lenses, shone like a spotlight directly onto Lorenzo.
Lorenzo sat there, enduring the stares—suspicious, scrutinizing, contemptuous. He didn't look at his accusers, his eyes fixed calmly on a point in the middle distance, his hands resting naturally on the table, fingers long and clean. In this atmosphere, his silence almost became another form of "confession."
"Lorenzo," Vittorio's gaze also turned to him, the old man's voice carrying a weary, cold assessment. "That day, in the study. The words were spoken by three of us. The final documents—the digital versions—were in your and Elisa's possession. The paper summary… aside from myself, only Elisa might have had earlier drafts. Do you have anything to say?"
All the pressure, all the suspicion, converged at this moment into a cold, rushing undercurrent, crashing toward the man who remained silent. He seemed like the only still vessel in the eye of the storm, but everyone knew it could be shattered the next instant.
Lorenzo slowly raised his eyes. His gaze met Vittorio's for a second—there was no fear, no pleading, only a deep-pooled calm. Then he glanced toward Elisa, as if merely confirming her presence. Finally, he looked back at Vittorio and spoke, his voice clear and steady, each word carefully measured.
"Mr. Chairman, I cannot explain how the leak occurred, because I do not know. But what I can say, on my honor and my oath, is that I have not, and would never, do anything to harm Rossi Group, or to harm Elisa."
"Honor? Oath?" Marco scoffed, spittle almost flying across the table. "What are they worth? Can they fill an 800-million-euro hole? Can they get 'Le Petit Royaume' back?"
"Then," Lorenzo's gaze shifted to Marco, still unnervingly steady, "Mr. Marco, what does the mole stand to gain? Money? If it were money, could Leval offer me anything that Elisa's trust fund and my current position at Rossi cannot? If it's for something else…" He paused, his voice lower but heavier. "What reason could I possibly have to harm the person I have sworn to protect?"
His rebuttal was logically clear, even coldly rational. But most in the room, blinded by loss and anger—or perhaps needing a convenient "outsider" to blame—found his "foreign" status, his common origins, his initially laughable-seeming marriage to Elisa, to be the readiest spear to point.
The boardroom erupted into noisy argument again, a pot of filthy, boiling water. Sophia sat in an observer's seat against the wall, her hands tightly knotted, nails digging white crescents into her palms. Her face wore a masterful blend of appropriate shock, distress, and a "duty-bound" anxiety. As the din subsided slightly, she took a deep breath and spoke in a voice trembling just enough to command attention.
"Papa, members of the board… Now… now is not the time to rush to assign blame." Her voice was soft but cut through. "Though this is truly dreadful, chilling! This isn't just losing a deal; it's digging at the ninety-year foundation of Rossi! We must investigate, get to the very bottom! But right now, we must find a way to plug the holes, to steady morale…" Her words, sounding like a plea for the greater good, hammered the severity of "shaking the foundations" and the urgency of a thorough investigation deeper into every mind.
Ultimately, under the grim stares of several major shareholders and the relentless clamor from Marco and others, fueled by Sophia's seemingly fair but inflammatory words, Vittorio closed his eyes. When he reopened them, they held only an iron resolve and a deeply buried pain. He raised a hand, and the innate authority silenced the chaos.
"Enough."
The single word restored a deathly quiet.
"Elisa," he looked at his granddaughter, his voice aged and hard, "the 'Phoenix Rising' project is hereby suspended indefinitely. All related work is to cease immediately. Until the source of the leak is conclusively identified and viable remedial measures are found, you are temporarily relieved of your duties as Group CEO. The Deputy CEO and a provisional management committee appointed by the board will assume control."
Elisa's breath caught sharply. The color drained from her face as if she'd been struck. She opened her mouth. "Nonno, I—"
"This is the board's decision!" Vittorio cut her off, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze shifted to Lorenzo, turning even colder and sharper. "As for you, Lorenzo Costa."
The old man's words were like icicles:
"In light of the grave suspicions currently surrounding you, and for the security of the Group, I require that you, effective immediately, vacate all positions within Rossi Group and cease any further involvement in company affairs."
He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, as if the next words were even harder to utter, but he forced them out.
"Concurrently, until this matter is fully resolved, it is no longer appropriate for you to remain at the Rossi residence. You are to vacate the premises today."
"Nonno!" Elisa shot to her feet, her chair screeching violently against the marble floor. Her chest heaved, eyes wide with incredulous fury and a near-shattering light.
"Elisa!" Vittorio's voice rose thunderously, the rage of ultimate authority. "This is for the family! For the Group! To give an account to everyone! Do you want the Rossi name to become a complete laughingstock because of your stubbornness?!"
Lorenzo also stood. His movements were unhurried, even composed. He didn't look at the faces now wearing triumph, indifference, or (rarely) pity. His gaze rested solely on Elisa. He saw her shoulders trembling with anger and shock, her tightly clenched fists, the scalding trust brimming in her eyes—a trust that burned painfully bright amidst the surrounding cold suspicion, yet also, like the only source of warmth in a deep freeze, instantly thawed the ice that had seized his limbs.
He said nothing. No defense, no anger, no protest against the injustice. He merely gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the furious Vittorio, as if accepting a routine transfer. Then, he turned to Elisa and took a small step toward her.
Under the astonished, confused, even disdainful stares of everyone present, he reached out. Not to take her hand, but with a movement so light and swift, he used his fingers to brush aside a strand of hair that had fallen against her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. His fingertips were warm and dry, the gesture natural as if performed a thousand times.
He looked into her eyes, now filled with a storm of emotions, and in a voice so low only she could hear, steady and clear, he said:
"I'll go back and pack my things first. Don't worry."
He paused, then added, so softly it was almost a breath, a promise, a brand:
"Believe me."
Then he withdrew his hand, turned, and walked with measured steps toward the boardroom's heavy double doors. His back was straight, showing no trace of panic or disgrace. Under the focus of countless eyes, he pushed the door open, stepped through, and closed it softly behind him, shutting out the cold, mad world within.
The soft click of the latch sounded like a temporary full stop to this absurd trial.
Half an hour later, Elisa stormed back into the top-floor suite she shared with Lorenzo in the estate. Her steps were hurried and heavy, heels thudding dully on the carpet.
Lorenzo was in the bedroom, quietly packing a modest-sized suitcase. He didn't own much: a few regular suits, some books, an old leather stationery case. He folded clothes with the same meticulous care, as if preparing for a brief business trip.
Elisa stopped in the doorway, her chest still heaving. She watched his calm profile, the almost cruel tranquility with which he packed, and the dam holding back her fury, her hurt, the heartache threatening to drown her, finally broke.
"How could they…" her voice was hoarse, trembling with a rare vulnerability. "How dare they… Nonno, he…"
Lorenzo stopped, turning to face her. His gaze was gentle, like winter afternoon sun filtering through a window—warm but not scorching. "He is the Chairman. The head of the family. He has his pressures, and choices he must make," he said calmly, as if analyzing a business case. "Sacrificing an outsider to quell internal strife and panic is the lowest-cost solution."
"But you are not an 'outsider'!" Elisa burst out, striding up to him, tilting her face up, her eyes locked on his, two fierce flames burning within. "You are my husband! The man I chose! And this absolutely, positively, was not you! I know it!"
She said it with such absolute, unwavering certainty, as if all the evidence and logic in the world paled to absurdity before her unreserved trust.
Lorenzo looked at her. At her slightly reddened eyes, her cheeks flushed with emotion, the unmistakable, pure, almost clumsy determination in her gaze. A corner of his heart felt brushed by the softest feather, aching and swelling, a warm current instantly washing away all the cold defenses built from injustice and suspicion.
He reached out and, this time, gently covered her clenched fist. Her fingers were icy, trembling slightly in his palm.
"Elisa," he said her name, his voice low and tender. "Thank you for your trust. That matters more than anything." He squeezed lightly, enveloping her cold fingers in his warmth. "But now is not the time for acting on impulse. You need to be calm. And I need time to find out who is truly behind this."
"I'll help you investigate!" Elisa said immediately, her grip tightening around his hand with surprising force. "I can't let them slander you like this, drive you out! Nonno… he's old, he's confused!"
"No." Lorenzo shook his head gently, lifting his other hand to brush away a trace of moisture that had gathered at the corner of her eye. "You need to stay within the 'storm,' Elisa. The suspension is temporary. You are still the Rossi heir, the soul of the 'Phoenix' project. You need to see how deep this rot goes. And I," he paused, his gaze turning sharp and clear, "on the 'outside,' might see things more clearly. And do some things… that you cannot do right now."
Even framed, exiled, his thoughts were for her protection, for finding a way out. A lump formed in Elisa's throat, sour and hard to swallow. For the first time, she realized with piercing clarity that this relationship, born of a contract, had long since grown something far more resilient and warm than a mere alliance of interests.
Suddenly, she opened her arms and hugged him tightly. It was a somewhat awkward but fiercely strong embrace. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent of old books and clean soap.
"Lorenzo," her voice was muffled, nasal, yet each word distinct, "I believe you. Not because you are my husband, but because you are Lorenzo Costa. The man I know would not do this. Never."
Lorenzo stiffened for a fraction of a second, then held her even tighter. He rested his chin lightly on top of her head and closed his eyes. In that moment, all the injustice, the coldness, the cruelty of the world seemed shut out by this embrace.
"I know," he whispered softly against her ear. "So, don't be afraid."