Somewhere in Toscana, where sun-kissed hills meet with Vineyards as far as the eyes can see, the Rossi pastry shop always smelled like survival.
Warm butter. Burnt sugar. Fresh dough struggling to rise—just like the family that owned it.
Isabella Rossi wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the small cardboard box from the counter. Inside were cream-filled cornetti, neatly arranged, made with care that didn't match the price they would be sold for.
"D'Este residence," her mother said, tying the ribbon tighter than necessary. "Be polite. Don't stare. And don't forget to smile."
Isabella nodded, the way she always did.
She stepped out into the late afternoon air, unaware that this delivery—this ordinary walk—would fracture her life into a before and an after.
At the iron gates of the D'Este mansion, a soldier stood guard.
Tall. Still. Eyes sharp like he had learned not to look at anything for too long.
"Delivery," Isabella said softly.
He turned.
And just like that, Sergeant Xavier Hernandez forgot how to breathe.
Xavier Hernandez had stood at that gate for three months.
He had watched politicians arrive in black cars, watched officers bow their heads slightly lower than protocol demanded, watched servants move like ghosts—efficient, invisible, replaceable.
But the girl holding the pastry box did not move like any of them.
She stood as if she expected the world to push back against her—and was ready to endure it.
"Delivery," she said again when he didn't respond, her voice steady but soft, like she was used to being ignored.
Xavier cleared his throat.
"Name?" he asked, forcing discipline back into his spine.
"Isabella Rossi."
He wrote it down, slower than necessary.
Her hands were dusted with flour. Not careless—honest. Her hair was pulled back simply, no jewelry, no makeup beyond what life itself had put on her face. There was nothing dramatic about her beauty, and that unsettled him more than if there had been.
He opened the gate.
"Wait here," he said.
She nodded, eyes lowered, obedient in a way that wasn't submission but courtesy. That difference mattered, though he didn't yet know why.
When he returned, she was still standing in the same spot.
No wandering. No curiosity.
Just patience.
"You can leave it," he said.
She hesitated. "They usually ask me to hand it directly to Miss D'Este."
His jaw tightened.
Otilla.
Before he could respond, the heavy front door opened.
Otilla D'Este stepped out like she owned the air itself.
She was dressed immaculately, pale silk clinging to her frame, her expression already curled into boredom—until she saw Isabella.
Her eyes sharpened.
"Oh," Otilla said lightly. "You're new."
Isabella stiffened. "No, miss. I—"
Otilla walked closer, circling her once, slowly, like a predator deciding whether something was worth the effort.
"A pastry girl," Otilla concluded. "How charming."
Xavier straightened. "Miss D'Este, the delivery—"
"I know," Otilla cut in, not looking at him. Her gaze never left Isabella. "She comes often. I remember faces."
She smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"You may go," Otilla said, finally taking the box. Her fingers brushed Isabella's accidentally—or intentionally. "Don't linger."
Isabella nodded, murmured a polite goodbye, and turned to leave.
Xavier watched her walk away.
Then Otilla spoke again—softly this time.
"Don't."
He looked at her.
Her smile was gone.
"Don't what, miss?"
"Look at her like that."
His chest tightened. "Like what?"
Otilla stepped closer until only he could hear her.
"Like she is anything more than a girl who brings sugar to a house she will never belong to."
Her eyes flicked toward the gate where Isabella disappeared.
"You forget yourself easily, Sergeant Hernandez," she continued. "Men like you should be careful what they imagine."
There was no threat in her voice.
Which made it worse.
"Yes, miss," he said.
Otilla smiled again—satisfied now.
"Good," she said. "I'd hate to remind my father why he keeps you here."
She turned and walked back inside, leaving Xavier alone with the iron gate, the silence, and a single, terrifying truth settling in his bones:
Otilla D'Este had noticed.
And Isabella Rossi had become visible in a world that crushed people for far less.