The car glides through the tall iron gates of the Sinclair family estate, the gravel drive winding up toward a villa that looks like it belongs in a Renaissance painting — elegant, timeless, and utterly foreign to everything Leila has ever known.
She shifts slightly in the back seat, her fingers curled loosely around the strap of her bag. Elias is seated beside her, his gaze out the window, seemingly composed. Yet the space between them thrums with unspoken energy.
As the car comes to a gentle stop, Leila catches sight of the neatly uniformed men standing near the entrance and spaced around the perimeter.
Security guards, she assumes. Maybe they take safety seriously around here.
She steps out of the car, the late afternoon light casting a warm glow over the polished stone steps. The estate is quiet — but not empty. Everything feels... curated. Controlled. Almost too pristine.
Elias's world feels carved from something far removed from her own. His world breathes silence and power.
Hers has always been noise, resilience, and quiet sacrifices.
She adjusts the scarf around her neck instinctively — a motion born of habit and her own invisible boundaries — as the front doors open.
A woman in her late fifties hurries out, her soft curls tied in a low chignon, her linen dress elegant but worn with ease. Her smile is radiant, kind, and familiar in a way that tugs at something deep in Leila.
"You must be Leila," the woman says warmly, taking her hands without hesitation. "I'm Isabelle — Elias's mother. And I've been waiting all afternoon to meet you."
Leila's brows lift in surprise. "Oh… it's such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair."
"Please, call me Isabelle. Any friend of Elias is already family."
That word—family—makes something flutter in Leila's chest. She glances at Elias, who for once, is watching quietly instead of leading the moment.
Inside, the home is spacious and filled with light. Marble floors, tall ceilings, art pieces she can't name — it should be intimidating. And it is, to a point. But Isabelle's presence somehow lessens the distance between their worlds.
Still, Leila can't help but notice the details: the way the house staff silently move in the background, the subtle nods to hierarchy, the constant presence of suited men who aren't just house help. Her instincts prickle, but she tucks the thought away. Maybe the Sinclairs are just very security-conscious.
Isabelle leads her to a guest room overlooking a sunlit courtyard. "You rest as long as you like. I had some light broth and bread prepared. I heard from Elias you haven't been eating much."
Leila offers a sheepish smile. "I've just been… busy."
Isabelle pats her hand. "Sweetheart, life is long. Don't let it pass while you forget yourself in it."
When she leaves, Leila sinks onto the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing over the soft linen duvet. The room is elegant, too elegant — but the warmth in this house isn't found in the furniture or the walls.
It's in Isabelle's voice. In her kindness.
How is this the same Elias? she wonders. This house doesn't match his silence. Or his eyes.
She doesn't know that beyond these walls, beyond the olive trees lining the estate, Elias commands a world wrapped in secrets and shadows. She doesn't see the weapons locked beneath the security rooms or the dossiers being sorted in silence. To her, the guards are just guards.
Still, she senses it — the undercurrent of something unspoken. But for now, she lets it rest.
In another wing of the villa, Elias stands beside his father in the study.
"She's here?" his father asks without turning from the window.
Elias nods.
"And?"
"I don't know," Elias says simply. "But I wanted her to be somewhere she could breathe."
His father looks at him then, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "It's a start."
The dining room glows softly under a chandelier that spills golden light across the long oak table. The silver cutlery gleams, and the aroma of freshly baked bread, herbed vegetables, and roasted meat mingles gently in the air.
Leila enters hesitantly, wearing a soft cream kurta-style blouse with a modest neckline and her scarf draped loosely over her shoulders. She had offered to wear something more formal, but Isabelle had waved it off.
"You're perfect as you are," she'd said earlier, handing her a light cardigan for the cool evening air.
Elias stands as Leila steps in, nodding to her in a quiet gesture of acknowledgment. Across the table, his father — a man with sharp grey eyes and a calm, commanding presence — rises too.
"Leila," Isabelle says, her tone warm, "this is my husband, Raffaele."
"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Leila says politely, slightly dipping her head in respect.
Raffaele offers a small smile. "The pleasure is ours. We've heard quite a bit about you."
Leila's eyes flick to Elias for a fraction of a second before she quickly looks away.
They take their seats. Conversation flows easily at first — led by Isabelle, who asks gentle questions about Leila's university program and her adjustment to Italy. Leila answers with grace, her tone always composed, always respectful.
But as the dinner continues, Leila becomes increasingly aware of the space she occupies — not just physically, but socially. This isn't just a different house or a different city.
This is another world entirely.
The polished silverware, the muted elegance of everything, the quiet way power pulses through the walls — it's nothing like the modest, loud, love-filled home she comes from. Yet, Isabelle makes sure she doesn't feel like an outsider.
"We're so glad Elias had someone strong on his team," Isabelle says, reaching to pour more water into Leila's glass. "You've clearly made quite the impression."
Leila offers a bashful smile. "I'm just… trying to learn as much as I can. I didn't expect to work in such a prestigious place so soon."
"She doesn't even know who the CEO was for the first few days," Sofia had joked on a call earlier.
Isabelle chuckles. "That might have been a blessing."
Elias's voice, quiet but distinct, interrupts. "You're doing more than just learning. You've already exceeded expectations."
Leila looks up in surprise — not just at the praise, but the sincerity in his tone.
Raffaele observes this exchange closely, eyes narrowing just slightly with interest, but says nothing.
The conversation shifts again. Isabelle tells a story from Elias's childhood — about how he once tried to run away from home because he didn't want to learn piano. Raffaele interjects now and then with corrections, and Leila finds herself smiling — the kind that sneaks up quietly, warming her without asking for permission.
For a moment, she forgets she's worlds apart from this family. She forgets the watchful eyes, the bodyguards outside, the lingering questions.
She just listens. And in that stillness, something shifts in Elias too.
He watches her more than he speaks.
Noticing the way she listens carefully before replying. The way she avoids looking directly at him. The way her fingers gently adjust the edge of her scarf when she feels overwhelmed.
When dinner ends, Isabelle insists on preparing a small dessert tray for Leila to take to her room.
"You need something sweet after today," she says with a wink. "And don't argue."
As Leila thanks her and stands to leave, Raffaele turns to Elias, waiting until she's out of earshot.
"She's not just different," he says quietly. "She's grounding."
Elias doesn't answer.
But the flicker in his eyes says he already knows.