SILK SHEETS, SILENT SCREAMS
AURUM REALTY – 10:00 A.M
Calithea Cappel sat upright, posture perfect, her fingers dancing over the silver keys of her
MacBook. Her office was a sanctuary of order—polished wooden floors, mahogany furniture, d a wall of lush indoor plants breathing life into the space. Gold-framed certificates lined the
walls, showcasing achievements that many in her field only dreamed of. Outside, the world
bustled with traffic, but inside her office, the only sound was the soft hum of her desktop fan and
the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard.
Then—ping.
Her eyes darted to her inbox. One new email from a private investigator.
Subject: You were right after all.
She smiled, but it wasn't joy. It was cold and satisfying.
Two attachments. Photo One: Lucille's call history, thick with Livian Winifred's number. Photo
Two: Lucille meeting Livian at various locations, cloaked in secrecy.
Calithea had hired a private investigator to follow Lucille and hack into her phone after weeks of
watching her squirm and slither like a serpent shedding skin. "I knew she was a snake," she
spat, her voice sharp as shattered glass.
She didn't waste time. She grabbed her phone, stood, and marched out. Her heels struck the
marble tiles like war drums. The hallway echoed with purpose.
She entered the elevator—jaw clenched, fury blooming hot behind her eyes. Her thoughts
burned like wildfire. Trust is a glass house. And Lucille threw a stone.
When the doors opened, Lucille was at her desk, flipping through papers. Clueless.
Calithea ignored her and stormed into Giovanni's office without knocking. Giovanni, lounging by
the far window, straightened, surprise etched into his features.
"Are you okay?" he asked, already reading her stormy expression.
"I was right after all," she said and handed him her phone. He scrolled through the photos and
smirked, anger flickering just beneath the surface.
He moved to his desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed.
"I want you here immediately," he said coldly, then hung up.
Calithea sank into the chair opposite him. The silence between them was not awkward—it was
electric.
A knock.
The door opened. Lucille stepped in. Her eyes locked with Calithea's—pure venom.
"Sir, you—"
"The Bible says, 'Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has
turned against me,'" Giovanni cut her off.
His tone hardened. "Even Jesus was betrayed. So who am I not to have a Judas in Aurum
Realty?"
Lucille froze, fear creeping into her gaze.
"What... what do you mean, sir?" Her voice quivered, her pride scrambling to stay intact.
Calithea held up the damning images.
"I'm…" Lucille sank to her knees. Her silence screamed guilt.
"You didn't just break the company's rules," Giovanni said, voice like winter steel. "You toyed
with our emotions. Our trust. By the time you're done packing, your sack letter will be ready.
Collect it from HR. Downstairs."
He turned his back on her. The sentence had been passed.
Lucille rose shakily and left, shame trailing behind her like perfume.
Calithea smirked. "Good riddance." She rose and left.
Giovanni stared out the window, the sting of betrayal like salt in a wound. How long had Lucille
been Livian's pawn? He rubbed his temples.
Then the ghost of Savannah's name drifted into his mind—and his frown deepened.
---
A THREE-BEDROOM APARTMENT
The living room whispered of wealth—cold, calculated, luxurious. It was the kind of space that
demanded silence. Ivory walls bore modern art like badges of curated taste. Sharp lines, hard edges.
Cushions in suede and silk were arranged just so. At the center, a glass coffee table with gold
trim stood proudly atop a Persian rug in ash and silver. A sleek electric fireplace glowed gently
in the marble accent wall, while above it, a flush-mounted TV displayed polished detachment.
Shelves held hardcovers and monochrome photographs. Recessed LEDs haloed the ceiling,
and a chandelier of smoked glass orbs hovered above.
Black sheer drapes dimmed the world outside, while the air inside pulsed with oud and
cashmere musk from a diffuser tucked in the corner.
Savannah Lynch sat on a cushion, scrolling Instagram with bored elegance. Then—Giovanni's
interview popped up.
"I miss him," she said softly, a crack forming in her voice.
A message from Livian appeared. She swiped it away like an annoying fly.
"I'll just go over… prepare his favorite meal… apologize." She made up her mind.
---
GIOVANNI'S MANSION – 8:30 P.M.
The iron gates opened, revealing a sleek car gliding into the compound. At its heart, a fountain
danced in quiet symmetry.
The car halted. The driver stepped out and opened the door. Giovanni emerged, steps
measured.
He walked to the dark-glass, bulletproof entrance—doors parted in his presence. A maid took
his suitcase as he stepped into his palace of muted grandeur.
Coffered ceilings trimmed in antique gold soared above. A chandelier caught the light like frozen
fire. Below, an espresso velvet sectional embraced the fireplace, carved in Romanesque relief.
Polished oak floors creaked softly beneath Persian silk. The air smelled of cedarwood, aged
leather, and a trace of cologne.
He ascended the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of memory. He reached his room. The
door knob turned Click.
The lights dimmed. Music floated in—soft, seductive.
A hand pulled him in. The door shut.
Candles. Roses. A table set for apology.
Arms around his waist. Lips brushing his shoulder.
"I've missed you," Savannah murmured.
Giovanni hissed, stepping out of her embrace like it burned. "You think I'll fall for this after you
slept with that scumbag, Livian Winifred?"
"I swear on my life—it won't happen again."
"Swear all you want. You're still selfish. A betrayer. After everything I gave you—what else did
you want?"
"He tricked me. I didn't want—"
"He didn't force you."
"You refused to propose after four years. What was I supposed to think?"
Giovanni went silent. The weight of that truth hovered.
Savannah stepped closer. Her voice trembled. "I'm sorry."
No response.
"Do you still love me?" she asked, her voice a whisper on the verge of breaking.
Silence. A thousand unsaid things tightened his jaw.
"Do you—"
"I don't want to see you again," Giovanni said, each word steeped in pain. He turned and walked
out
.....
FLASHBACK – TWO YEARS AGO, MIAMI
The sun dipped low, gilding the horizon with molten gold. Waves whispered secrets to the shore.
The salty breeze lifted Savannah's curls as she danced barefoot, carefree, her laughter carried
by the wind.
Giovanni watched, grinning. Shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses slid down his nose. She twirled
again—chasing the wind like it owed her something. Then she fell beside him, flushed, glowing.
"You look like trouble," he teased.
"Good trouble or bad?"
He traced her cheek with his knuckles. "The kind I'd chase across the world."
She blushed, digging in her beach bag. Out came a necklace of seashells—childish, maybe, but
hers.
"I made this for you. It's stupid but—"
He took it gently. "Nothing you give me is stupid."
She curled into him beneath a sky streaked in cotton-candy pink.
"Promise me something, Gio."
"Anything."
"No matter what happens, no matter who tries to come between us… you'll believe in us."
"I swear it, Savannah. Always."
And then, with salt on their lips and forever in their eyes, they kissed. Not knowing that forever
can be fragile.
---
PRESENT – PRIVATE LOUNGE
Dim light. Leather sofa. Giovanni sat with aged scotch in hand. His tie undone, sleeves rolled.The silence was a companion tonight.
On TV, an old interview. Savannah beside him, laughter in her eyes, her hand in his.
He sipped. The burn was nothing next to the ache.
He picked up his phone. His thumb hovered. Memory vs. pride.
Click.
Delete.
Her blowing him a kiss