The Phantom left the Rossi estate nearing midnight. Outside the windows, Milan shifted from its dazzling gala mode to a cool blue serenity, neon lights stretching into long streaks on the damp streets. Inside the car lingered the residual sweetness of white roses, mingled with leather and a trace of exhaustion.
Elisa finally let the perfect mask she had worn for twelve hours fall away. She leaned back in the spacious leather seat, eyes closed, fingers unconsciously massaging her temples. The heavy diamond necklace still hung around her neck like an icy shackle.
Lorenzo sat in the seat opposite, having already undone his bow tie and cufflinks, revealing the clean lines of his wrists. He was equally quiet, his gaze fixed on the cityscape flying past outside, his profile appearing calm and detached in the shifting light and shadow.
The car entered the underground garage of a 19th-century building in Porta Nuova. This was one of Elisa's private apartments, a top-floor duplex with a view overlooking the Duomo's spires, and enough space to maintain distance.
The elevator ascended silently. In the confined space, only the faint hum of machinery and their steady breathing could be heard.
"Contract Addendum A-3," Elisa spoke suddenly, eyes still closed. "Cohabitation with separate bedrooms. The master suite on the second floor is yours. I'll take the guest room on the first floor. Common areas are shared, but we adhere to a schedule."
"Understood." Lorenzo's reply was brief.
The elevator doors opened onto a minimalist, spacious foyer. Black-and-white marble floors gleamed; a large, somber-toned contemporary painting hung on the wall. The air smelled of new renovations mixed with the scent of cedar from a high-end diffuser system—polished, cold, utterly devoid of life.
Elisa kicked off her heels, bare feet padding onto the cool floor as she headed toward the open kitchen's island. She opened a built-in wine cooler, took out a bottle of water, and took a long drink.
Lorenzo draped his tuxedo jacket over his arm and surveyed the surroundings. His gaze swept over the expensive yet soulless designer furniture before settling on Elisa's exposed ankles and the water bottle in her hand.
"You didn't eat much tonight," he said, his voice unusually clear in the empty living room.
Elisa paused, looking up at him. "I'm not accustomed to eating in such settings."
Lorenzo said nothing more. He turned to the simple travel bag he had brought—canvas, incongruous in the luxurious space. From it, he took a package wrapped in clean cotton cloth, walked to the island, and placed it gently on the smooth black marble surface.
Unwrapping the cloth revealed a piece of golden-brown focaccia, sprinkled with coarse sea salt and rosemary. It was cold now, but still emanated the simple scents of wheat and olive oil. Compared to the delicate, untouched caviar tarts and truffle canapés at the wedding feast, this bread was朴素得近乎寒酸,yet possessed a striking presence.
"My mother asked me to bring it," Lorenzo said, his voice calm.
Elisa's eyes moved from the bread to Lorenzo's face, finally resting on the plain band on his left hand.
"*Il pane prima delle perle*," she murmured the phrase, her ice-blue eyes meeting his directly. "Bread before pearls. Did you have it engraved?"
"My great-grandfather did," Lorenzo acknowledged, rotating the ring slightly, a gesture of unconscious reverence. "He was the first baker from San Gimignano to study his craft in Florence. He had a goldsmith make this pair of rings, one for my great-grandmother, one for himself, and had that phrase engraved inside. They've been passed down since, to the eldest son of each generation when he marries." He paused. "My grandfather gave it to my father. My father… gave it to me yesterday."
His explanation was matter-of-fact, yet it carried a weight Elisa could feel. This wasn't a random prop, but an heirloom passed down four generations in an ordinary family, bearing simple beliefs and family history.
"What does it mean?" Elisa pressed, a note of genuine inquiry in her tone, not social politeness. Tonight, he had quoted classics, handled pressure with composure, displaying a mind far beyond that of an ordinary archivist. This ring, this phrase, seemed like a small puzzle.
Lorenzo was silent for a moment, as if choosing his words. "Pearls symbolize wealth, status, everything华丽却易碎. Bread represents survival, fundamentals, the most basic yet real connections between people." He paused. "It means, before chasing pearls, ensure you have bread. Or, the brilliance of pearls cannot replace the substance of bread."
"A pragmatic philosophy," she commented finally, her tone neutral. She reached out and lightly touched the surface of the focaccia—rough, still faintly warm with a mother's lingering care. "Thank your mother for me."
"I will." Lorenzo nodded. "Would you like some? An empty stomach isn't good."
This simple concern, basic courtesy between contractual partners, felt oddly out of place to Elisa. In this space filled with calculation and agreements, care based on "physical need" was too… ordinary. Ordinary enough to be jarring.
"No, thank you." She withdrew her hand, donning the cool mask again. "I'm tired."
She turned and walked toward the hallway leading to the guest rooms on the first floor. After a few steps, she stopped, but did not look back.
"Your father's surgery is at nine tomorrow morning at the Stanford Medical Center. Professor Massimo Costa is leading—one of Europe's top cardiothoracic surgeons. The entire team is the best. The anesthesia protocol has been optimized three times." Her voice regained its precise, businesslike tone. "The first tranche from the trust account was transferred this afternoon, covering all costs and post-op rehab. He will receive the best care."
This was a promise, and a reminder—she had fulfilled her part.
Lorenzo listened quietly, then said, "Thank you."
Another silence. Elisa seemed to want to say more, her fingers curling slightly.
"Also," she finally spoke, her tone like a carefully considered business decision, "you can report to the Ross Group headquarters next Monday. The position is Special Advisor in the 'Historical Archives and Heritage Management Office,' under the Strategic Development Department. Main responsibilities include organizing and digitizing a century of the Group's business archives, contract copies, key correspondence, and establishing a searchable internal knowledge base. You report directly to the Strategic Development Director, but project briefs are to be copied to my office."
Lorenzo didn't seem surprised. He was silent for a few seconds. "Is this part of the contract?"
"Not exactly." Elisa tilted her head slightly, light and shadow outlining her fine jawline. "It's a business arrangement based on a preliminary assessment of your capabilities. Your experience at Palladio and your understanding of archives have value for the Group. And," her voice grew harder, "a 'husband' with a legitimate job creates fewer unnecessary speculations and complications than an idle 'companion.'"
The reasoning was sound, the logic tight, flawless.
Lorenzo watched her back, then slowly nodded. "I understand. Once my father's condition is stable, I'll report as arranged."
"Good." Elisa didn't linger, walking straight to her room. The sound of the door closing was soft, yet distinct in the quiet apartment.
Lorenzo stood alone in the center of the empty living room, under the evenly cold light from the carefully designed recessed lighting. He looked down at the lonely piece of focaccia on the counter. He picked it up gently, broke off a small piece, and chewed slowly. It was cold, a bit hard, but the solid, simple flavors of wheat and olive oil remained. It was the taste of home—real, warm, utterly different from this exquisitely icy "marital home."
He carefully wrapped the remaining bread and placed it in the refrigerator. Then, picking up his travel bag, he headed toward the master suite on the second floor.
The next morning, as the first rays of Milanese sunlight streamed through the duplex's enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, Elisa was already dressed, seated at the dining table scrolling through global market briefs on her tablet. She wore a charcoal grey tailored suit, hair impeccably pulled back, once again the sharp, efficient Group CEO.
Lorenzo came downstairs, also dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, phone in hand, a slight frown on his brow, but relief evident in his eyes.
"Surgery's just finished," he met Elisa's raised gaze, offering the information. "Professor Costa said it went exceptionally well, smoother than expected. My father is awake, in recovery. My mother called… she sounded very happy." He paused, adding, "She thanks you again."
Elisa's finger paused mid-swipe, then she nodded. "Good news." Her response was brief, giving little away. "The medical team will continue monitoring. If anything is needed, contact Anna directly."
"Thank you." Lorenzo walked to the island, poured himself a glass of water. Passing the fridge, he hesitated, but didn't open it.
"About the job," Elisa set down her tablet, her gaze steady on him. "When do you estimate you can start?"
Lorenzo considered. "My father needs to be observed in Milan for a week, then return home to recuperate. By mid-next week, if he's stable, I can go to the office to familiarize myself with the environment and project."
"Acceptable. Anna will coordinate the specifics." Elisa stood, picking up her handbag and coat. "I have three meetings this morning. The apartment access code and your pass permissions are set. You can come and go freely. If you need anything, contact property management or Anna."
Having delivered the instructions as if assigning tasks, she headed for the door.
"Elisa." Lorenzo called her name suddenly.
She stopped at the door, turning back.
Lorenzo looked at her, the morning sun casting warm points of light in his deep brown eyes. "Thank you. For everything you've done for my father."
His gratitude was earnest, not a social nicety.
A flicker passed through Elisa's ice-blue eyes, like sunlight glancing off ice. She seemed about to say something, but in the end gave only the slightest, almost imperceptible nod.
"Just fulfilling the agreement," she said, then turned and closed the door.
Silence reclaimed the apartment. Lorenzo walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the slowly awakening city of Milan. In the distance, the white buildings of the Stanford Medical Center gleamed in the morning sun.