The sea was calm that morning, too calm.The kind of stillness that felt wrong, like the world was holding its breath.
I was at the villa—alone, except for the staff that moved quietly in the background. The walls still carried echoes of the chaos from days before, but the silence had grown heavier, almost suffocating. Marco hadn't returned since the night he left to "handle things." He didn't say what that meant. He didn't have to.
I'd stopped waiting for him.
Instead, I found myself walking through the corridors, touching the cold marble railings, staring out at the cliffs, feeling like a ghost in a house that wasn't mine.
Then I heard it—the sound of the gate opening.
At first, I thought it was Marco. My heart leapt, stupidly hopeful. But when I looked through the window, my breath caught.
A man stepped out of the car. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit. His movements were steady, controlled, as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. His hair was streaked with gray, his face marked by time—but his eyes... I would have known those eyes anywhere.
My father.
I hadn't seen him in fifteen years. He left when I was seven—no warning, no goodbye. Just gone. I remembered that day with painful clarity: my mother's shaking hands, the half-packed suitcase, the slam of the door, and the sound of her crying long after he'd gone.
Now, here he was. Standing at the gate of the same villa that had witnessed so many of my secrets.
I didn't move. I watched him from the terrace as the guards approached him, asked questions. He spoke calmly, politely. But his eyes swept over the villa like he was searching for something—or someone.
When our eyes met, his expression didn't change.Not recognition.Not warmth.Nothing.
He didn't know me.
He looked right at me—the daughter he once tucked into bed, the little girl who used to wait by the window for him to come home—and he saw a stranger.
Something in my chest cracked quietly, almost gracefully.
He walked up the steps, his hand brushing against the railing, and nodded to me. "Good morning," he said, his tone courteous, distant. "I'm looking for Mr. De Luca."
My mouth went dry."He's not here," I managed. "He left days ago."
He hesitated, as if unsure whether to go. "I see. I was told I could find him here. Important business."
I nodded, though I didn't know why.He stood there a moment longer, his gaze flicking over me again, studying me like one studies a stranger who feels strangely familiar.
Then, softly, he smiled. "You remind me of someone," he said. "Someone I used to know."
The words hit harder than I expected. I forced a small smile. "Maybe you do," I whispered.
He didn't press further. He thanked me, turned away, and began walking toward the gardens. I watched him go, every step taking him further into the past I never stopped carrying.
And that's when the phone rang.
The sound sliced through the silence like a blade. I walked back into the living room, picked it up.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end trembled. "Is this Isabella Ruiz?""Yes."There was a pause—too long, too heavy. Then: "I'm calling from St. Helena's Hospital. I'm so sorry to inform you…"
My knees weakened.
"…your mother was found unresponsive in her apartment this morning. We did everything we could."
The world blurred. My breath came out in fragments. I didn't hear the rest—the explanations, the sympathy, the details that didn't matter.
All I heard was the echo of silence after her name.
My mother was gone.
The phone slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud. I stood there, staring out through the open doors, at the man walking slowly through the garden—the man who didn't know me, the man who had left us both.
And for the first time since he disappeared, I understood what true abandonment felt like.
Because now, there was no one left to go home to.