Hours later, the penthouse main bedroom was shrouded in darkness, save for the ethereal blue-white glow emanating from her laptop screen.
The room itself was a sanctuary of muted luxury—king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets in soft ivory, piled high with throw pillows that Diana had absentmindedly pushed aside; a sleek nightstand holding a half-empty glass of water and a bottle of sleeping pills she hadn't touched tonight; floor-to-ceiling windows framing the sprawling cityscape below, where Los Angeles pulsed with life far removed from her own unraveling existence.
The air was cool, courtesy of the silent central AC, carrying a faint hint of lavender from the diffuser she'd turned on earlier in a futile attempt to calm her nerves.
Diana sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, wrapped in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame.
Her hair was twisted into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, strands escaping to frame her face like unruly shadows.
She hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before typing the name she'd avoided for days.
The one that had haunted the edges of her thoughts since Zari first mentioned it.
Alexander Luigi Gian.
The search results flooded in almost instantly, an avalanche of information cascading down the page.
Google's algorithm served up a mix of financial news, tabloid speculation, and rare profiles from reputable outlets like Forbes and The Wall Street Journal.
Diana scrolled slowly at first, her heart rate picking up with each click, the laptop's fan whirring softly as if protesting the weight of the query.
The first hit was a Forbes article from two years ago: "The Phantom Investor: How Alexander Luigi Gian Built an Empire in the Shadows."
She clicked it open, eyes scanning the lead paragraph. "In an era where billionaires flaunt their wealth on social media and reality TV, Alexander Luigi Gian remains an enigma. Dubbed 'The Duke' by insiders—a nod to his Italian nobility roots and commanding presence—this reclusive tycoon has amassed a fortune estimated at over $21.4 billion through a web of silent investments in entertainment, tech, and real estate. But Gian doesn't seek the spotlight; he controls it from afar."
Diana leaned back against the headboard, pulling the hoodie tighter around her.
The words jumped out from the screen, painting a picture of a man who operated like a chess grandmaster, always several moves ahead.
No interviews granted in over a decade.
No personal social media accounts—though his companies dominated platforms like streaming services and music labels.
Only a handful of photographs existed in the public domain, always captured at high-society galas or charity events, always immaculate in his tailoring, always alone amid crowds of admirers.
She switched to the images tab, curiosity overriding her unease. The thumbnails loaded in a grid, each one a study in controlled elegance.
Black tuxedo cut to perfection, hugging broad shoulders that spoke of disciplined gym routines or perhaps the remnants of a more athletic youth.
A jawline that could cut glass, sharp and defined, with just the right amount of stubble to soften the severity without diminishing the authority. Silver threading through thick, dark hair like expensive highlights, adding a distinguished air that only enhanced his appeal.
And those eyes—the color of winter steel, piercing through the lens as if he already owned the photographer, the viewer, the very moment captured.
He didn't chase.
He didn't need to.
Everything came to him.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine, not entirely from fear.
There was an undeniable magnetism in those photos, a quiet power that drew the eye and held it captive.
Diana clicked on one from a Gala three years prior: him standing at the edge of the frame, conversing with a cluster of Hollywood executives, his expression neutral but commanding.
No smile, no overt charm—just presence.
Her breath hitched when she stumbled upon the one photo from years ago—the night she'd been in the same room as him. It was a group shot from an industry fundraiser, blurry in the background, but there he was, shaking hands with a label executive she'd been introduced to earlier that evening.
Diana zoomed in, her pulse quickening. She'd been nobody then, a wide-eyed newcomer tagging along as a plus-one to her then-manager's event.
The memory flooded back unbidden, sharp and vivid. She'd been standing awkwardly to the side, nursing a glass of sparkling water to steady her nerves, when the executive had pulled her over when he was going to talk to him.
Honestly to Diana she was sure Gian even recognized that executive.
After a very very very brief conversation and they shook hands again it was time to move on to another conversation Gian had turned, and extended a hand to her too
His grip was firm but not crushing, his skin warm against hers. "Enjoy the evening," he'd said in a voice like aged whiskey, lightly accented.
She'd mumbled a thank you, flustered, and he'd moved on without a backward glance.
Forgotten until now, buried under layers of her own rising fame and subsequent fall.