That long-unimaginable day finally arrived.
Outside, the midday sun shone brightly, the air heavy with heat, yet inside the car, Carolina felt a piercing chill. The black-haired girl was impeccably dressed, as if she were about to meet someone of immense importance—and indeed she was. Elio Edoardo Moretti, owner of the Dolcel brand, a man whose wealth soared high and whose name was more famous across Italy than his own family.
She wore a deep-purple jacket collar and pitch-black trousers, perfectly matching the darkness of her hair and eyes. Her long hair was neatly clipped back with a white pearl hairpin. That was Carolina—someone who valued fashion and personal neatness above all else. Though she had suffered a fever just days earlier, she recovered almost miraculously, as if the reply letter itself had healed her. She and her grandmother, Livia, were overjoyed—so much so that her grandmother personally prepared her for this meeting.
And Elio?
Oh, he had planned this far ahead.
The moment Carolina accepted his invitation, he arranged a pickup car and prepared a sum of money for her to use during her stay in Borgo Alvento Village. Yes—that was where Elio lived. Carolina would spend her time there interviewing him, staying at an inn not far from the designer's residence. All of it had come together because of Carolina's curiosity, the very force that had brought her to this point.
The car turned, and the front gate suddenly opened wide. Carolina was immediately greeted by tall green trees lining a straight road, flanked by vast gardens filled with flowers of every kind, coloring the landscape in vivid hues. The crunch of gravel beneath the tires grew louder as the car moved forward, approaching a Tuscan-style villa wrapped in green vines climbing its cream-stone walls.
Carolina's eyes sparkled.
"Oh my…"
Those were the only words that escaped her lips.
The car stopped right in front of the main entrance. Carolina steadied herself. A female servant opened the car door, and that was when Carolina stepped onto the gravel path.
"Thank you," she said with a nod.
"You're welcome, Miss Carolina," the servant replied. "Please, follow me."
The servant walked ahead as the car behind them drove away. Carolina followed her guide inside. The moment she passed through the main door, she was greeted by a powerful floral fragrance.
So fragrant.
Carolina's eyes widened as they swept across the space before her. Flowers—everywhere. Every inch was filled with them. Real flowers, freshly cut, as if they had just been picked moments ago.
"It smells wonderful…" she murmured.
"You like it?" the servant asked. "Mr. Elio loves this. He replaces the flowers several times a week. Whether there is an event or not, flowers will always be present in his house."
Carolina hadn't known that. It was unusual—strikingly so.
"Interesting," she said softly, continuing to follow the servant as they turned down a corridor, passed the staircase, and arrived at the living room.
Still the same—overflowing with flowers.
"Miss Carolina, I will leave you here. Mr. Elio will be with you shortly," the servant said.
"Oh, that's fine," Carolina replied.
And just like that, the servant left her alone in the living room, surrounded by the lingering scent of blossoms.
Standing by herself, Carolina was utterly captivated by the room's refined beauty. Cream-colored walls blended with soft white tones, and behind the sofa stood large glass windows that allowed sunlight to flood the room, revealing a breathtaking view of the vibrant flower garden outside.
Beautiful—and this was only the living room.
As Carolina sat on the white sofa patterned with colorful abstract flowers, she suddenly realized that the sofa was made from stitched clothing fabric. Perhaps the flowers themselves were crafted from leftover textiles of the Dolcel fashion house, transformed into furniture.
"So mesmerizing," she murmured.
Carolina let out a small laugh, touching the sofa as she lightly bounced her body while sitting, amused by its uniqueness.
While she was absorbed in admiring the sofa, she didn't notice that a man had already been watching her from the side.
"Miss Carolina?" he called softly.
Carolina turned at once, her eyes widening.
It was Elio.
She immediately stood up, staring at him.
Good heavens… Elio's hair had turned completely white. Of course—he had grown old. In magazines and circulating media photos, there had never been a single image of Elio in his old age. Only photographs from his youth existed—him wearing glasses, his face sharp and cynical, often captured secretly.
And now, here he was.
Elio's face was wrinkled, framed by thick glasses with a chain hanging from them. His expression was still gentle, freckles dotting his cheeks. Though time had etched lines into his skin, the structure of his face remained unmistakably the same as before.
And of course—his fashion never left him.
His prosthetic leg.
Elio was not known merely as a designer, but as a designer without his left leg. He wore a prosthetic, one he often modified himself, infused with the distinct identity of the Dolcel brand. Now, the prosthetic was coated in red paint, adorned with what seemed to be hand-painted artwork—possibly by a real painter.
Carolina felt incredibly nervous standing face to face with the legendary designer. She dug her fingernail into her index finger, trying to steady herself.
"Miss Carolina, is that truly your name?" Elio asked with a smile.
"Ah… yes, it is," she replied, swallowing.
Elio chuckled and walked closer, assisted by his personal attendant. He sat down across from Carolina.
"Please, sit. Calm yourself. Think of this as your own home," he said.
Carolina nodded and sat back down. "Thank you," she said nervously.
"You're welcome. Once again, treat this place as your own," Elio added, nudging the attendant beside him. "Mattel, please bring tea and some snacks for our guest."
"Yes, Sir," Mattel replied with a nod, then left them.
Carolina clenched her cold fingers together. Elio noticed immediately.
"So… how is it? Is it comfortable enough?" he asked.
Carolina swallowed. "I think so… it's very comfortable."
"Miss Carolina, relax. Don't be nervous. Speak as you normally would. And since this is my home, just call me Elio. Being addressed too formally makes me feel like a stranger. My name alone is enough," he said, tapping his thigh and smiling.
Carolina smiled back.
Not long after, Mattel returned, placing tea and snacks on the table before leaving them alone again in the living room. The floral scent still lingered in the air.
Carolina gathered her courage.
"I suppose you really love flowers, Elio. From the entrance all the way here, flowers welcomed me at every step," she said.
Elio exhaled, then laughed softly. "Ah… I like that. Someone who notices the details. Yes, of course—I've always been like that. Flowers make me feel more alive, I think. They're like the breath of nature itself. When flowers fill this house, I can remember, and inhale their fragrance directly."
He picked up the tea and offered it to Carolina. She accepted, and they sipped together.
"So, Miss Carolina," Elio continued, "are you truly curious about my clothing? You observe every detail so keenly, it seems."
Carolina felt flattered—and still nervous—but she held herself steady.
"Elio's creations feel as though they call out to me," she said. "Rather than waiting any longer… perhaps we should begin the story, don't you think?"
She glanced up at him, then took another sip of her tea.
"So you can't wait—neither can I. It seems we should begin the story now. And I think it would be best if we start from my birth, because I consider all of my art to be like the wheel of my life. And Miss Carolina, are you ready to listen?"
Carolina immediately prepared her pen and small notebook. Then she said, "I think I am."
Elio smiled, his cheeks lifting gently. He then gazed at the flower-filled window behind Carolina, and the drifting blossoms seemed to carry him back into the past.
At last, Elio Edoardo Moretti was ready to share the story of a life that shaped the journey of his art.
---
His past came to claim him.
Night fell over the village of Borgo Alvento. Heavy rain battered the moss-covered brick rooftops, leaving pools of water everywhere. Yet one house felt colder than the rest, wrapped in an unspoken tension. From afar, a woman's moans could already be heard. From inside, they grew clearer—so full of pain that even the storm outside could not drown them out.
"What should we do?! She's in so much pain, it seems the baby is coming soon, Midwife!" cried the assistant, holding onto the woman—Paola, Elio's mother. Paola was struggling, standing firm despite her pallor, her face drained of color, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
"Quickly, bring more hot water. We must begin immediately!" the midwife replied sharply. The assistant hurried out with a bucket, while the midwife stayed beside Paola, supporting her trembling body.
Paola groaned again, small sobs escaping her lips as she longed for her husband to be by her side.
"Pah…? Where is Pablo? I can't… I can't do this without him, Pah," she whimpered to her father, Edoardo, who had been standing helplessly at the doorway, just as confused, unsure of what to say. Still, he tried his best to remain calm for his daughter. He stepped closer, taking her into his arms.
"Stay calm, Paola. He'll come. He'll be home. The storm may have delayed him," Edoardo said gently.
Soon, the assistant returned with more hot water. The midwife instructed Paola to move to the bed, with Edoardo helping her carefully.
Paola's face grew even paler, her body colder, her eyes fluttering rapidly. She continued to cry out in pain, calling for her husband, Pablo. But reality was cruel—Pablo, Elio's father, was a fisherman. He was out at sea, perhaps delayed, perhaps unaware that his wife was about to give birth. Even with Edoardo beside her, Paola kept pleading for her husband.
"Pah… I'm so weak, I want my husband, Pah!" she cried. Her fingers clenched the bedsheets tightly, her body shaking with every contraction. Watching her, Edoardo could no longer hold back his tears.
"Please hold her hands, we must begin now!" the midwife instructed, already preparing, soaking cloths in hot water and turning it warm.
"Paola, be strong. I'm here with you. Be strong, Paola," Edoardo said, lifting her trembling hands and pressing a kiss to her arm, panic etched across his face.
"Arghhhh!" Paola screamed, followed by sobbing. "I can't… I can't… where is my husband? Papa, call Pablo!"
Edoardo shook his head. He couldn't answer.
"Paola, listen to me. We have to try—now. When I give the signal, you push. Be strong, Paola!" said the midwife firmly.
And so the labor began, filled with piercing screams from inside the room—so loud they woke the children sleeping in the house. They recognized the voice immediately. It was their mother's. Soon, they stood at the doorway, witnessing the scene.
Edoardo, who had been focused on Paola, turned and realized his three grandchildren were there.
"What's wrong with Mama, Grandpa? Why is she crying?" asked the eldest, Javer.
"Why are you here?" Edoardo approached them. Bianca, the second child, began crying when she saw the blood.
"Grandpa, why is Mama bleeding?" she asked, clutching her sibling beside her.
"Sister… Mama is crying," whispered the third, Eva, her voice trembling.
Meanwhile, Paola continued to struggle, following the midwife's instructions with the assistant's help.
"Come on, come on! Go back to your room now. Your mother will be fine," Edoardo said quickly, closing the bedroom door. He lifted the crying Bianca into his arms and held the other two by the hand, guiding them back to their room, telling them that if they slept, their mother would be fine.
The labor lasted long into the night, accompanied by the relentless storm outside. Edoardo stayed in the children's room, watching over them until they fell asleep. Even then, the screams, groans, and sobs from downstairs reached him, making his body tremble with fear for his daughter. His heart shook violently. Every time a scream echoed, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm. When things seemed quieter, he returned to stand before the bedroom door, waiting.
Each groan from Paola made Edoardo's face tighten again, his fingers clutching the edge of his shirt. Fear consumed him. With every cry, he whispered prayers through the night—until Paola's cries were finally replaced by the sound of a baby's wail.
At that sound, Edoardo's eyes widened. The bedroom door opened, and he stepped inside to see the newborn in the midwife's arms. He wept at the sight, gently taking the baby boy and moving beside Paola.
"Paola… look at this," he said softly.
Paola smiled weakly, stroking the baby's cheek.
"You were incredible, Paola," Edoardo said, crying tears of joy.
"Papa… if I may say so, he looks so much like you," Paola whispered.
Edoardo smiled broadly. But moments later, Paola groaned again.
"Arrghhh… there's another one, dear God. Am I going to keep giving birth to twins?" she clutched her stomach.
Edoardo stood up at once. This had happened before—her older children had been triplets, followed by Elio and the child yet to be born.
"There's another?" Edoardo asked in panic, still holding the newborn.
"It seems so. We must do it again," the midwife replied.
Edoardo took a deep breath, bracing himself to witness once more what had already shaken his soul. Holding the newborn close, he watched his daughter struggle again from the doorway.
Paola continued fighting until dawn arrived. Hot water was constantly replenished to aid the delivery. The tiny baby boy cried endlessly, and Edoardo tried to soothe him, overwhelmed and panicked, unsure of what to do. Pablo still had not returned. Had he been trapped by the storm at sea? No one knew. Outside, the storm still raged on, unrelenting.
A midwife finally stepped out of the room, carrying another baby boy in her arms. Edoardo now held two grandsons, his heart shattered—caught somewhere between joy and sorrow, unsure which feeling he was allowed to claim. His attention drifted back to his daughter. He moved closer to Paola.
"Look at you… you were incredible, Paola," he said, wiping his eyes before kissing his daughter's forehead.
Paola let out a faint chuckle, her strength completely drained, like a hot towel wrung and folded too many times.
"Papa… Papa… where is Pablo?" she asked weakly. Her eyes were red, her face growing paler by the second.
The midwife beside them suddenly noticed something was wrong—too much blood.
"She's hemorrhaging!" the midwife cried out in panic, immediately doing everything she could.
"This happened after she delivered the second baby, Mr. Edoardo," the assistant added urgently.
Edoardo turned around, shaking his head as his throat tightened with fear.
"For the love of God, Paola, stay with me!"
He handed both babies to the midwife's assistant and rushed to hold his daughter. Her body was limp—motionless. Paola was stiff in his arms. Edoardo kept holding her, his eyes burning red as the fear he had carried became reality. The midwife, who had been trying desperately to save her, slowly stopped.
Edoardo trembled, clinging to his daughter's body, refusing to look at her face—the face that would never wake again.
"Paolaaa… stay strong, please help her! Ah… Paola, my child, my daughter, my love, please hold on! What will I do without you, my beautiful girl, my precious daughter—Paola… Paolaa, stay with me! I can't… I can't, Paola, Paolaaa!"
He gripped her body, crying, sobbing, begging her to wake up. But that day, Paola would never open her eyes again.
Paola's death struck Edoardo with unbearable force. The grief and regret of losing his daughter would scar his heart forever.