A few hours later, the plane began its slow descent, slicing through the dense clouds that clung stubbornly to the horizon. Hazel stirred in her seat, her body stiff from the long flight, her mind caught between exhaustion and anxious energy. Outside the window, the city unfurled beneath them—a glittering sprawl of lights and endless motion, so different from the quiet isolation she had grown used to.
The landing was smooth but the jolt of the tires against the tarmac made her heart leap. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, trying to prepare for whatever was coming next. Beside her, Enzo seemed completely at ease, his sharp eyes already scanning his phone for updates, his demeanor calm, controlled—like a man stepping onto a chessboard he knew better than anyone else.
After clearing the private terminal—quiet, efficient, and discreet compared to the usual airport chaos—they stepped out into the night air. The moment Hazel's foot touched the pavement, a wave of flashing lights and shouting voices crashed over them.
The paparazzi were waiting.
Dozens of cameras clicked in rapid succession, their flashes painting the scene in stark white bursts. Microphones thrust forward like spears, voices overlapping in a chaotic roar.
"Enzo! Enzo! Why now? Why return after all this time?"
"Who's the girl? A new love interest?"
"Are you here because of the inheritance rumors?"
Hazel flinched instinctively, her body tensing under the sudden, relentless scrutiny. She wasn't used to this—the noise, the heat of so many eyes. Before she could react, Enzo moved closer, his hand light but firm against the small of her back, guiding her through the chaos with surprising gentleness.
He said nothing. Not a word. His face was a cold, unreadable mask, his jaw set tight. The questions hurled at him bounced off like pebbles against a fortress wall. For a man who commanded so much attention, he seemed utterly unaffected by it.
Their security team formed a human shield around them, efficiently parting the crowd to create a path to the black SUV waiting at the curb. The moment the car doors shut behind them, the noise outside became a distant hum.
Inside the vehicle, silence stretched between them. Hazel sat rigid, her heart still racing, while Enzo leaned back in his seat, one arm resting casually across the headrest. His eyes, however, remained sharp, watchful.
She wanted to ask—wanted to understand—but something about the steel in his expression made her bite her tongue. Instead, she turned her gaze to the window, watching the city blur past.
The drive took them beyond the city's dense core, through winding roads bordered by towering trees and high stone walls. Eventually, the gates of an estate loomed into view. Tall and wrought-iron, they swung open slowly at their arrival, revealing a long, winding driveway that seemed to stretch into forever.
Hazel's breath caught as the mansion came into view.
It was massive yet graceful, its façade a blend of old-world elegance and modern luxury. Tall windows glowed with warm light, and the sprawling gardens surrounding the house were immaculately kept, each hedge and flower bed carefully manicured.
The car stopped before the grand entrance. Enzo stepped out first, then turned to offer Hazel his hand. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it, feeling the brief, reassuring strength of his grip.
Inside, the house was even more breathtaking. High ceilings soared overhead, adorned with intricate molding and crystal chandeliers. Polished marble floors reflected the soft glow of the lighting. Art pieces lined the walls—portraits, landscapes, abstract works—each one probably worth more than everything Hazel owned combined.
Enzo didn't linger in the grand foyer. Instead, he led her through the house, giving her a brief but thorough tour.
"This is the library," he said, pushing open double doors to reveal a room that looked straight out of a dream. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, filled with books whose spines gleamed with age and wisdom. A fireplace crackled softly in one corner, and deep armchairs invited readers to lose themselves for hours.
"And here," he continued, leading her further, "is the conservatory."
Glass walls and a glass ceiling enclosed a jungle of exotic plants, the air inside humid and rich with the scent of blooming flowers. In the center stood a stone fountain, the soft trickle of water adding to the room's serene atmosphere.
He showed her the dining hall next—a cavernous space with a table long enough to host a king's feast—and then finally, after several more turns down long, carpeted corridors, he stopped before a door.
"This will be your room," he said quietly.
Hazel stepped inside and was immediately struck by how cozy it felt despite its size. Cream-colored walls, a bed big enough to swim in, plush rugs underfoot, and large windows that offered a breathtaking view of the gardens bathed in moonlight.
A sitting area was tucked by a small fireplace, and a delicate writing desk stood near the window, complete with fresh paper and pens. It was all… perfect. Too perfect.
"Thank you," she said, her voice coming out softer than she intended.
Enzo lingered at the threshold, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe. His expression had softened somewhat, though there was still a tightness around his mouth.
"If you need anything," he said, "there's a call button by the bed. Otherwise… rest. You've had a long day."
Hazel nodded, too exhausted to say more.
With a final glance, Enzo closed the door, leaving her alone.
For a moment, Hazel simply stood there, soaking it all in. The events of the past twenty-four hours washed over her in waves—the flight, the cameras, the strange new world she had been thrown into without warning.
She kicked off her shoes, letting them thud softly onto the carpet, and stumbled toward the bed. The sheets were cool and smelled faintly of lavender. As soon as she lay down, the tension in her muscles began to melt away.
She closed her eyes, intending only to rest for a moment, but sleep rushed in like a tide, dragging her under before she could resist.
The last thing she felt before surrendering completely was a strange, lingering thought:
What had she gotten herself into