I'd been walking on eggshells for days, nervous she'd catch on that I am about to propose to her. She was far too perceptive, my Isabella. The slightest shift in my routine, and her brows arch in suspicion, her eyes scrutinizing me with an intensity that could peel back layers of carefully constructed composure.
"You're humming," she remarked one morning, her voice soft with sleep yet edged with curiosity. I'd been in the bathroom, shaving, a tune from some obscure opera playing in my head – a melody of soaring triumph and profound joy. I'd caught myself mid-bar.
"Just a good mood, mia cara," I'd replied, trying to sound nonchalant, the razor poised precariously. "A man is allowed a good mood, no?"
