Departures
838 Words
The sky was clear the next morning.
No rain. No wind. No storm.
Just bright sunlight pouring into the suite as if the past two days had never happened.
Isabella was already dressed when Matteo stepped out of the bathroom. Her cream coat was back on, her hair styled neatly, her posture perfectly straight.
Composed.
Untouchable.
As if she had never shivered under a thin hotel blanket.
Matteo adjusted the cuff of his dark suit, watching her silently. She looked exactly like she had at the airport the first day — confident, elegant, distant.
Interesting.
“So,” she said smoothly, breaking the silence. “The storm has finally decided to cooperate.”
“It appears so,” Matteo replied.
There was a brief pause.
Neither of them mentioned the past two nights.
The teasing. The glances. The tension that had slowly grown in the quiet space between them.
It was easier that way.
Matteo picked up his phone just as it buzzed.
“My driver is here,” he said calmly.
Almost immediately, Isabella’s phone lit up too.
“So is mine.”
Of course.
They were not the type to leave in taxis.
Matteo collected his briefcase from the desk, movements precise and unhurried. Isabella zipped her suitcase with quiet efficiency.
Two powerful people.
Returning to their separate worlds.
He walked to the door first, opening it and stepping aside slightly — not out of politeness exactly, but habit.
She walked past him, their shoulders almost brushing.
Almost.
They entered the elevator together for the last time.
The ride down felt different from the first one.
That first ride had been filled with silent judgment and assumption.
This one carried awareness.
Recognition.
And something neither of them would name.
When the elevator doors opened into the lobby, sunlight spilled across the marble floors. A few guests moved around quietly.
Outside the glass doors, two sleek black cars waited at the curb.
Separate.
Isabella noticed immediately.
Matteo did too.
For a second, they simply stood there.
“Well,” Isabella said lightly, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “It seems this is where we part ways.”
Matteo studied her face carefully. No weakness. No hesitation.
But her fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her suitcase.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“New York is a large city,” he said evenly.
“It is.”
“Our paths are unlikely to cross again.”
She held his gaze. “Unlikely.”
A small pause.
The air between them felt heavier than it had inside the suite.
Strange.
Two nights in one room should have made things simpler.
Instead, it made leaving feel… complicated.
A driver stepped forward toward Isabella’s car, opening the back door respectfully.
Matteo’s driver waited near the other vehicle.
Neither of them moved immediately.
“You never told me what your meeting was about,” Matteo said calmly.
“You never told me yours,” she replied.
A faint, almost amused expression crossed his face.
“Fair enough.”
Silence again.
Then Isabella extended her hand.
Formal.
Controlled.
“It was… interesting meeting you, Matteo.”
He looked at her hand for half a second before taking it.
Her grip was firm.
Steady.
But warm.
“Likewise, Isabella.”
Neither let go immediately.
Just a second too long.
Then she pulled her hand back first.
“Take care of your storms,” she said softly, a subtle reference to everything they hadn’t said.
Matteo’s eyes darkened slightly — not with anger, not with softness — but something unreadable.
“I always do.”
She nodded once.
Then she turned and walked toward her car.
Matteo watched her go.
He didn’t call her back. Didn’t ask for her number. Didn’t suggest they meet again.
That wasn’t his style.
If something was meant to happen, it would.
Isabella paused just before entering the car.
For a split second — barely noticeable — she looked back.
Their eyes met across the short distance.
No smile.
No wave.
Just acknowledgment.
Then she got into her car.
The door closed smoothly.
At the same time, Matteo entered his own vehicle.
Two engines started almost together.
The cars pulled away from the curb in opposite directions.
As Isabella leaned back against the seat, she exhaled slowly. The city moved past her window in a blur.
Ridiculous, she told herself.
Two nights. That was all.
Yet something about him lingered.
Across town, inside his own car, Matteo stared out the tinted window.
He was already checking emails. Already shifting back into work mode.
But his thoughts drifted — briefly — to a woman who refused to admit she was cold and challenged everything he said.
He allowed himself the smallest smirk.
Unlikely to cross again?
New York was large.
But power circles were small.
Very small.
And storms, he had learned, had a habit of returning.
As both cars disappeared into the morning traffic, neither of them realized—
This wasn’t an ending.
It was an interruption.
- Writer
