Ch 8 - Mesmerized
1187 Words
Elena sat cross-legged on the nursery rug, wooden blocks scattered across the floor. Isabella laughed as she built a crooked tower, her curls bouncing with every clap of her small hands when the blocks tumbled down.
Elena smiled faintly, the warmth of the child’s joy tugging at something deep inside her.
“Lena,” Isabella said suddenly, tilting her head with curiosity, “why don’t you come to my school anymore?”
The question struck Elena like a cold wind. She blinked at the little girl, startled. “Your… school?”
“Yes.” Isabella leaned closer, her wide eyes shining with innocence. “You used to be there every day. You were my teacher. Don’t you remember?”
Elena’s heart lurched. A teacher? She was Isabella’s teacher? She searched her mind frantically, desperate to grasp onto even the faintest memory of chalk, books, children’s laughter—anything. But her mind was a blank, a wall of darkness that offered her nothing.
Her throat tightened. “I…” She forced a small smile, trying not to frighten Isabella with her turmoil. “I just like spending time with you here better.”
The girl’s smile returned as she stacked another tower, seemingly content with the answer. But Elena’s chest felt hollow, the emptiness inside her louder than ever. She wasn’t only missing pieces of her past—she was missing herself.
Who was she, really? What did she like? What did she dream of before all this? Why couldn’t she remember something as important as her own profession, her own life?
Rising quietly, Elena smoothed her skirt and stepped out of the nursery. She wandered the hall with growing determination until she found herself before the heavy double doors of Dante’s study. The urge to demand answers burned hot in her veins.
Her hand lifted to knock—
But the door opened, and Marco stepped out, closing it sharply behind him. His sharp gaze immediately caught her.
“Where are you going?” His voice was clipped, suspicious.
“I need to speak to Dante,” Elena said firmly, though her voice wavered at the edges. “I have questions.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed. “Questions?”
“Yes.” She drew in a breath, forcing her trembling hands to stay at her sides. “Isabella says I used to be her teacher. But I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything about myself—who I was, what I did, what I liked. I need to know.”
For a moment, Marco only studied her. Then a low, humorless laugh escaped his lips.
“You are Dante’s fiancée. That is all you need to know.”
Elena frowned. “That can’t be all. I must have had a life before this—”
“You did whatever Dante required of you then,” Marco cut in, his voice sharp, “and nothing has changed. Your past, your likes, your choices—they don’t matter. What matters is what Dante wants. That is all.”
Her frustration bubbled. “But I don’t know what he wants! He barely talks to me!”
Marco’s smirk returned, but there was steel in his eyes. “Then learn, instead of asking foolish questions. Don’t waste his time—or mine.” With a dismissive gesture, he stepped aside. “Go back to where you belong.”
Elena’s breath caught, anger and despair twisting inside her. She turned away, forcing her steps steady, but her mind whirled.
If no one would tell her the truth, then she had no choice.
She would find out who she really was—on her own.
~~~~~~~
The next evening came with a different kind of weight.
Elena was in her room when one of the maids knocked gently before entering, carrying folded linens. The young woman set them aside and, with a polite smile, said, “Miss Elena, Master Luciano has organized a gathering tomorrow evening. A party. You are expected to attend.”
Elena blinked. “A party?”
“Yes, miss,” the maid replied carefully. “There will be many important people here. You must be prepared. Marco has already instructed us—your grooming must be seen to. Dresses will arrive later today, and you must wear one of them.”
Elena’s throat tightened. A party meant people. Strangers. Eyes watching her. What if someone there knew her and she didn’t recognize them? What if she made a mistake? Still, she only nodded faintly. “I… understand.”
The next day unfolded in a blur of hushed instructions and bustling footsteps. The maids guided her to a chair near the vanity table. One brushed out her hair, letting it fall in soft golden waves, while another worked with delicate precision to add the faintest touches of makeup to her pale face. A pair of hands smoothed lotion across her arms before fastening a bracelet at her wrist.
When they finally unveiled the gown, Elena’s breath caught. The emerald green fabric shimmered faintly under the soft light, its rich color almost alive. She hesitated before slipping it on with their help, the fabric hugging her form as if it had been tailored for her alone.
At last, she sat before the mirror. The reflection staring back was not the lost, frightened woman she had seen every morning since waking in this strange life. This woman was elegant, composed, breathtaking in a way she barely recognized as herself.
Elena swallowed hard and whispered, “Thank you.”
The maids beamed with pride, bowing their heads slightly before stepping aside to let her leave.
~~~~~~~
The mansion was alive with music and murmured voices. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across polished floors, where men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns mingled, their laughter flowing with the soft strains of a violin quartet.
Dante stood among a circle of men near the bar, a glass of deep red wine in his hand. He was speaking in low tones about business when the air around them shifted. A sudden hush fell over the crowd, conversations breaking off mid-sentence.
Brows furrowing, Dante turned slightly, scanning the room. “What—”
And then he saw her.
Elena Vincenti, at the top of the grand staircase.
The emerald gown clung to her form with effortless grace, the deep green making her eyes glow like rare jewels. Her golden hair fell in soft curls over her bare shoulders, catching the light like threads of spun sunlight. She moved cautiously, her hand brushing the polished banister, but every step held a natural grace that silenced the room.
Dante Luciano prided himself on control—on never faltering, never showing weakness. But as his gaze locked onto her, something inside him stilled. He had chosen that gown himself, among others sent, with the detached precision of a man making a strategic move. Yet never—not even in his most reckless imaginings—had he pictured her like this.
She wasn’t just beautiful. She was ethereal. Untouchable.
For the first time in years, Dante Luciano found himself… mesmerized.
- Writer
