You’re just back-office support, Clara, so you’ll stay in Chicago while the executive team flies to Rome, my boss, Julian Kincaid, told me before leaving for his sister's $1.4 million villa wedding.
The Villa Taverna descended into a scene of utter pandemonium. Vendors, now acutely aware of the payment crisis, crowded Evelyn, demanding immediate settlements. Investors, their faces grim, stormed out of the gates, their waiting sedans speeding away into the night. Julian stood amidst the chaos, a broken man, powerless to stop the unraveling.
The grand archways, which had earlier welcomed guests with such splendor, now framed a tableau of financial wreckage and personal collapse.
I walked away from it all. Unseen, untouched.
I simply exited through a side gate, away from the screaming and the flashing camera phones that were now documenting Kincaid Capital’s spectacular demise. The cool night air felt clean against my skin.
The cypress-lined drive, lit by the moon, stretched out before me. I walked with purpose, my heels making a soft click on the ancient stones. Ahead, my scheduled taxi was waiting, its engine idling quietly.
I opened the passenger door, slipped inside, and gave the driver the name of my hotel. I didn’t look back. The villa, the wedding, Julian’s empire – it was all behind me.
The taxi pulled away smoothly, leaving the crumbling fantasy behind. The lights of Rome, indifferent to the drama, continued to twinkle in the distance.
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