Still There
1173 Words
Alessio
She was gone.
The elevator doors had clicked shut and I was still staring at the brushed metal like an i***t.
Stupid.
I looked down at my arm.
That was the spot where her bare fingers had wrapped around my skin. No gloves, no silk barrier, nothing. Just her.
Yet, there was no white-hot pain, no burning crawling up my veins, no sick feeling hitting the back of my throat.
Sixteen whole years of hell, yet for her, the rules somehow didn't apply.
I pressed two fingers against the same patch of skin, trying to feel for any abnormality.
There was nothing. My skin was normal and cool, like nothing happened, yet I knew it's nothing normal.
It had to be a fluke or maybe a delayed reaction.
"Mr. Moretti?"
I snapped my head up. One of the board members was standing at my front, his eyes darting around like he will rather be anywhere than being here.
I fixed him with a cold stare.
"Your father was looking for you. He mentioned the—"
"Reschedule it."
The man blinked, stunned speechless.
I walked past him, outside the hall, before he could say anything else.
I had more pressing issues to attend to.
My driver didn't say a word when he opened the door.
Good.
I watched the streetlights illuminating the city, through the tinted glass. My phone buzzed.
Father.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again and I muted the phone.
I should have been thinking about the missed meeting, the excuses I will give, the shipment at the docks tomorrow, the problem Marco was handling tonight.
Instead I was thinking about a particular soft hand and it's owner.
Aria.
No last name, no explanation. She just walked out perfectly fine while I sat in the back of a car feeling like the world had tilted sideways.
It's a glitch, that's the only logical answer.
But, what if it's not logical?
The doctors always said the condition was unpredictable. Maybe she didn't touch me long enough to trigger the reaction.
Except my arm still felt warm where she'd gripped it.
I picked my phone to call my Doctor, Dr. Ferrante.
It was few minutes past midnight, but I didn't care, I needed answers.
He picked up on the first ring.
"Alessio. Is something wrong?"
"I'm coming in early tomorrow morning."
There was a long pause.
"What happened? Did you have an episode?"
"Someone touched me."
There was silence.
"And?" Ferrante asked quietly.
"Nothing happened."
"Are you certain?"
"I think I'd notice if I collapsed, Doctor." I said coldly.
"Who was she?"
"I don't know yet."
---
Ferrante's clinic was tucked away on an ordinary street where rich men buried ugly secrets.
I'd spent eleven years in this building.
Eleven years of needles, pills, and theories that never worked.
Ferrante ran the usual checks. He studied the tablet in his hand and frowned.
"The markers haven't changed, Alessio."
I stared at him.
"The condition is still active."
"Then why her?"
He took off his glasses slowly.
"I can't explain it."
"You're the supposed specialist."
"Sometimes the body makes exceptions we don't understand."
I said nothing.
"I've read about isolated compatibility cases," he continued carefully. "But it's rare. Extremely rare."
"You've seen this before?"
"No."
I stood from the examination table and pulled my shirt back on.
"What causes it?"
"I don't know."
My jaw tightened.
Ferrante watched me carefully.
"You need to find her again," he said quietly.
"That won't be difficult."
It's a lie.
I didn't have her number. Didn't know where she lived. Didn't even know if Aria was her real name.
He studied me too closely.
"You seem invested."
"I'm not."
The answer came too quick.
His expression didn't change, but I watched a knowing light in his eyes.
"She's an exception," I said flatly. "Nothing more."
He nodded politely.
Neither of us believed that.
I left the clinic and dialed Marco from the car.
"Boss."
"I need a trace."
"On who?"
"A woman named Aria. She was at the Foundation event tonight."
He paused for a moment.
"Last name?"
"If I had her last name, I wouldn't be calling you."
"Got it. I'll pull the guest list."
"Do it quietly."
"Understood."
"And Marco?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep this away from my father."
Because if Vittorio discovered her first, he would turn her into another business arrangement.
Another asset to control me.
Aria looked at me like I was a problem she hadn't decided was worth solving.
I needed to know why.
---
Aria
I was still in the emerald dress, reeling from the events of the night when my phone buzzed.
I hadn't moved for an hour. Just sat on the edge of my bed staring at the wall, trying to slow my heart down.
The heat from where I'd touched him was gone, but I still felt him, somewhere in my heart.
I unlocked my phone.
It was an unknown number.
I didn't need to open it to know who it was from.
You did well tonight. He noticed.
Don't let him find you too quickly. Let him crave it.
— V
I stared at the screen until the light dimmed.
Vittorio Moretti.
He was quietly watching everything like people were pieces on a board he'd already arranged.
He noticed.
The way Alessio looked at me after the touch wasn't just shock.
It was the look of a man seeing something impossible.
I stood up abruptly.
My apartment felt smaller tonight.
Three overdue notices sat beside the sink.
A few hours ago I was standing in a glass tower surrounded by people who spent more on watches than I made in a year.
Now I was back here.
I peeled the dress off carefully and hung it over the chair.
One tiny tear and I'd probably owe Vittorio my organs.
I grabbed my phone and called the hospital.
"Miss Salvi," the nurse said tiredly.
"How is he?"
"He's stable now. His vitals are holding."
Stable.
Not worse, not better either.
I hung up and leaned against the counter.
This is for him. Everything I'm doing is for him.
Even if it meant tricking and making contracts with dangerous men that could end my life with a snap of their fingers.
I pulled the folder out from under my mattress.
It was full of business logs, security maps.
And the section I kept avoiding; the medical file.
Subject: Alessio Moretti.
Condition: Chronic tactile hypersensitivity.
Extreme physical reaction to skin contact. Nausea, tremors. Potential heart failure under prolonged exposure.
It started when he was twelve.
Twelve years old.
He had spent half his life avoiding human contact like it was poison.
A sharp ache moved through my chest.
It felt like compassion and guilt; compassion for what he has faced, guilt for what I'm about to do to him.
I closed the folder.
My phone buzzed again.
He's already started looking for you.
I went still.
Then I looked toward the door.
Silence.
Then, a solid knock sounded on the door.
- Writer
