The Sinclair estate glows softly under the Tuscan moon, its ancient stones warm with memories and rose vines curling against the pillars like whispers of time.
Elias sits at the long oak table in the garden courtyard, wine glass untouched before him. Across the table, Isabelle Romano-Sinclair hums softly as she arranges the cheese plate, while Raffaele reads something off his tablet, eyebrows slightly furrowed.
The scent of rosemary and roasted garlic lingers in the air. The food is perfect. The night is quiet. But Elias's mind is... elsewhere.
He's never been the type to fidget. But tonight, his fingers drum slowly, unconsciously, against the linen tablecloth.
Isabelle notices first.
"You're not eating," she says lightly, not looking up. "That's how I know something is wrong. Or very, very interesting."
Raffaele peers over his reading glasses. "Your mother is right. For once."
Elias blinks, pulled from his thoughts. "Hmm?"
"Ah, there he is," Isabelle says with a knowing smile. "We were beginning to wonder if our son had been replaced by a very handsome, very distracted impostor."
Elias offers a small smirk, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Raffaele sets down his tablet and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You've been like this all evening. Not a single complaint about the new logistics route I mentioned. And no comment on the wine, which is from your favorite vineyard."
"I noticed that too," Isabelle says, her tone gentler now. "It's not like you, Elias. You're somewhere else."
He swirls the wine absently, watching the deep red catch the candlelight. A long pause stretches.
"I don't know," Elias says finally. "It's… strange."
"Strange," Raffaele repeats. "Strange is when the stock market drops 4% on a Tuesday. You, my son, look haunted."
Elias huffs a quiet breath through his nose. "It's nothing. Just—" He stops.
Because what is it, really?
A glance.
A moment.
A girl with a soft smile and guarded eyes. A girl whose voice he can't understand, but whose presence unsettled something still in him. A girl who walks with her head high… but lowers her gaze with intention.
He doesn't know what to name this feeling. It's not desire in the usual sense. Not infatuation. Something more... still. Quiet. Inexplicable.
"I saw someone," Elias admits, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. "Not the way I usually do. She's… different."
His parents share a look—one of those unspoken conversations only those who've been in love for decades can have without saying a word.
Raffaele lifts his glass. "Ah."
Isabelle rests her chin on her palm, her smile soft. "Different can be dangerous. Or divine. Often both."
Elias glances between them, then down at his plate.
"I don't even know her personally. And yet…" He shrugs lightly. "It's like something shifted."
Raffaele leans in slightly, voice steady and low. "Let me tell you something, figlio mio. There are things in life you can build, buy, break, or bury. Feelings—real ones—you can only face. And if they shake you, it means they matter."
He pauses, eyes locked on his son.
"You don't need to define it yet. Just don't ignore it. Men like us—we're trained to calculate, to control. But sometimes, the thing that matters most doesn't follow orders."
Elias looks at him, silent for a long beat.
"I'm not used to feeling like this."
"No," Isabelle says gently, "because you've never let yourself. Until now."
Elias leans back in his chair, gaze turning skyward. The stars blink faintly overhead. In the distance, a cricket hums. The vineyard breathes around them.
And inside him, something begins to shift. Not loudly. Not clearly.
But unmistakably.