Chapter Two

He was running.

“I'm coming, Joelle!” He screamed, but the rain swallowed his voice.

His shoes pounded against cracked concrete, the sound echoing through the narrow alley behind the orphanage. His lungs burned, each breath tearing through his chest as though the air itself refused him mercy. 

Rain lashed his face, blurring his vision, soaking his clothes until they clung heavily to his small frame. But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

At the end of the alley stood the rusted iron gate, half-open, swaying weakly in the wind. Beyond it, beneath the flickering yellow security light, she stood exactly where she had promised she would be.

Joelle.

She looked smaller than he remembered, her thin shoulders hunched against the cold, her fingers curled tightly around the straps of her worn backpack. Her dark hair clung damply to her cheeks, and her wide eyes scanned the darkness with fragile hope.

She was waiting for him.

Relief surged through him so violently it hurt.

“I’m here!” he tried to shout.

But no sound came out.

His throat moved. His chest strained. Nothing.

Panic clawed up his spine. He pushed himself harder, legs screaming in protest as the distance between them refused to close. 

The gate seemed to grow farther away the faster he ran, the ground stretching endlessly beneath his feet.

Joelle’s eyes found him then. For a moment, her face lit up — pure, unguarded relief. She stepped forward.

And then… Hands seized him from behind. Strong. Unyielding. He struggled violently, clawing at the unseen grip dragging him backward into the darkness.

No. No. No.

He reached for her, fingers outstretched, desperate. Joelle’s expression changed.

Confusion.

Fear.

And then the worst of all…

Resignation.

Her hand slowly fell back to her side. She stopped trying to reach him. Stopped waiting.

“Joelle!” he forced out, the name tearing from somewhere deep inside him.

This time, sound came. But it was too late.

The gate slammed shut between them with a deafening clang. He woke up with a sharp inhale. For a moment, he didn’t move, his heart hammering violently against his ribs, his hand still half-reached toward someone who wasn’t there. 

His fingers curled slightly, as though they had been holding someone else’s hand only seconds ago. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered it. The dream clung to him, vivid and suffocating.

It always ended the same way. His breathing steadied gradually, though his chest still felt tight.

He rarely dreamed. He never forgot when he did. 

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar in its perfection—smooth white molding, recessed lights, silence so complete it felt unnatural. Nothing here creaked. Nothing here was broken. Nothing here was temporary.

He turned his head slightly. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows stretched across the far wall, revealing the pale gray light of early morning and the sprawling city beneath. Crescent towers of steel and glass pierced the sky, cold and untouchable.

He had spent years building a life that could never be taken from him again. Yet somehow, sleep still dragged him back to the one thing he had lost.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his dark hair. The silk sheets slipped effortlessly from his body, pooling at his waist. Everything around him was expensive. Controlled. Permanent.

Nothing like the place he had come from. On the nightstand sat a watch, a phone, and a small object half-hidden beneath them.

A thin red thread bracelet. Worn. Faded. Out of place among everything else. 

He stared at it for a moment, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Then he slid open the drawer and placed it inside, shutting it carefully.

Out of sight.

A soft knock sounded at the door. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The door opened anyway.

“Good morning, sir,” the house staff said quietly. “Your father is waiting for you downstairs.”

Sir.

Not his name. Never his name.

He gave a single nod. “I’ll be down.”

The dining room was already bathed in morning light when he entered. His father sat at the head of the long table, posture rigid, a newspaper folded neatly beside his untouched coffee. 

His mother sat opposite him, elegant and silent, her fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup as though it were the only thing anchoring her there.

They both looked up when he approached. For a moment, no one spoke.

He took his seat without a word. A staff member stepped forward immediately, placing a plate before him. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewed espresso filled the air.

He wasn’t hungry.

His father studied him with the same measured scrutiny he reserved for boardrooms and negotiations.

“You’re late.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

“I slept poorly,” he replied evenly.

His father’s gaze lingered, as though searching for something beneath the surface. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he reached for his coffee.

“There is a board dinner next month.”

He said nothing.

“You’ll attend.”

Not a request. A decision already made.

His father set the cup down carefully, folding his hands neatly atop the table.

“It is time,” he continued, voice calm and absolute, “for you to begin preparing for marriage.”

The words settled into the space between them with quiet finality. Across the table, his mother’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her cup, though she did not look up.

He felt nothing. Or at least, nothing he allowed himself to feel. Marriage. Alliance. Strategy. Ownership disguised as tradition. He had been raised long enough in this world to understand what it meant. He remained still. 

His father’s eyes held his. “There are several suitable families who have expressed interest." Giovanni Guidotti said. “This will strengthen the position you’ve worked so hard to build.”

Build.

The word lingered strangely in his mind. As though none of it had been handed to him. As though none of it had cost him anything. His gaze drifted briefly toward the window. From this height, the world looked small. Manageable.

Families.

Not women.

Not love.

Interest.

He wondered, briefly, what his father would say if he knew there had once been a girl waiting for him behind a rusted gate. A girl who had believed he would come back. He wondered, distantly, what had become of the boy who once believed promises could survive distance.

His father spoke again. “You understand what is required of you.”

Not what you want. Not what you feel. Required.

He picked up his coffee and took a slow sip, steady and unhurried. “I understand,” he said.

It was the answer his father expected. It was the answer Alessandro Guidotti would give. His father nodded once, satisfied. The conversation was over. That was how it had always been.

He had learned, over the years, how to bury hesitation before it reached the surface. How to silence instinct. How to become exactly what was expected of him.

How to become someone else.

Alessandro Guidotti never hesitated.

Alessandro Guidotti never looked back.

And he had perfected being Alessandro Guidotti.