The moment Rihanna stepped out of the terminal, Italy wrapped around her like a silk scarf—beautiful, soft, and just slightly suffocating.
Her eyes searched for a familiar sign, anything in English that might anchor her in this dreamscape of echoing announcements and fast-talking strangers. The weather was warm but not heavy. The air carried hints of roasted coffee, leather, and something floral. She swallowed down the whirlwind in her chest and tightened her grip on the handle of her suitcase.
And then, she saw it.
A woman in a sleek black trench coat stood at the arrival gate, holding a cream-colored placard:
RIHANNA THOMPSON — AURELIO INTERNATIONAL
The woman smiled, but it was professional. Curated.
"Miss Thompson?" she asked. Her voice was fluid, elegant.
"Yes. That's me," Rihanna said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"Welcome to Florence. I'm Elira. I'll be assisting you during your onboarding."The way she said it—"onboarding"—made Rihanna feel less like a new employee and more like a high-profile client.
"This way, please. Your luggage has been taken care of already."
Rihanna blinked. "Already?"
"Yes, of course. We like our new family members to feel seen." Elira smiled again, too perfectly. "And safe."
The word echoed in her head for no reason.
She followed the woman through the sliding glass doors, and there it was—a gleaming black luxury sedan wait
urb. The driver stepped out to open the door for her without a word.
Rihanna climbed inside. The seats smelled of leather and faint cologne. A bottle of still water, a silk envelope, and a neatly folded itinerary rested in the seat pocket in front of her.
She hesitated before opening the envelope.
Inside was a simple card:
Welcome to your new life, Miss Thompson. We look forward to watching you grow.— Aurelio International
It should've warmed her. Instead, something in her stomach tensed.
Aurelio-Owned Residence — Florence
The apartment they brought her to was… stunning.
There was no other word.
Polished floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the river. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a catalog. A faint, calming scent of bergamot and vanilla floated through the air.
There were fresh tulips in a crystal vase. A robe folded neatly on the bed. An Italian pastry box on the marble counter. Even the coffee machine gleamed like it had never been used—and somehow knew exactly how she liked her brew.
Elira turned toward her once they stepped inside. "You'll have a few days to adjust. On Monday, we'll escort you to headquarters for orientation. Someone will come by with your ID and wardrobe fittings tomorrow."
"Wardrobe?" Rihanna asked, startled.
"Yes. All employees of Aurelio are expected to maintain a certain... presence. You're now a face of the brand."
"Oh. Okay."
Elira gave her a once-over—not judgmental, but assessing. Then she offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Rest well, Miss Thompson. This city… has a way of changing people."
With that, she left.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Final. Soundless. Like a secret being sealed.
Rihanna wandered into the bedroom, touched the velvet drapes, ran her fingers across the edge of the writing desk, still not quite believing any of it.
This couldn't be real.
But it was.
And yet, deep in her gut, something whispered that it was all a little too real. Too perfect. Too prepared. As if she'd been expected long before she even applied.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the note again.
We look forward to watching you grow.
She tried to laugh. It came out nervous.
Italy was already pulling her in. She just didn't know what for.