A week had passed. A week in which the echoes of the burial and the revelations from the diary had settled into Lysandra's soul like a fine layer of ash. The trip to José María Morelos with Agnes had been a balm of simplicity and manual labor, a necessary respite far from the ghosts of the mansion. Agnes, though still with a veil of sadness in her eyes, had found comfort in Lysandra's company and in the task of putting her mother's humble legacy in order. Fernando had returned from his whirlwind trip to Mexico City, bringing with him a renewed energy and a Ruby who seemed increasingly integrated into the strange family ecosystem, though her relationship with Fernando remained an enigma Lysandra could not decipher.
That night, a warm and starry Friday night, Lysandra felt an overwhelming need to escape, to seek a refuge that was hers alone. Fernando and Ruby had gone out to dinner with some business partners, and the mansion, though no longer empty, once again felt too large, too quiet. She decided to go to her favorite restaurant, a small, cozy Italian place called "Il Portico Segreto" (The Secret Portico), an intimate corner of the city where the aroma of garlic, basil, and red wine always managed to soothe her spirit.
The place was perfect. Low lights, small tables with checkered tablecloths, the soft murmur of quiet conversations, and the music of an old Dean Martin vinyl record floating in the air. She felt safe, anonymous, in control. The waiter greeted her by name and guided her to her usual table, a small alcove next to a large window overlooking a secret inner courtyard.
As she walked behind the waiter, her mind lost for a moment in the comforting familiarity of the place, she turned to go around a stone column. At that precise instant, a man getting up from a nearby table made the same turn in the opposite direction.
The collision was sudden and surprisingly solid. Lysandra stumbled, losing her balance, the papers from a small catalog she was holding flying through the air. A choked cry escaped her lips. But before she could fall, strong, steady hands grasped her firmly by the waist, stopping her fall and pulling her involuntarily against a firm body.
The first thing that hit her, even before the shock of the impact, was the scent. A sweet yet masculine fragrance, an intoxicating blend of sandalwood, bergamot, and something deeper, almost amber-like, that sent an immediate shiver down her entire spine.
Time seemed to stand still. Her hands were pressed against his chest, feeling the fabric of a high-quality linen jacket and the steady, firm beat of his heart beneath it. An intense blush, a burning shame at almost having fallen so clumsily, rose up her neck to her cheeks. She didn't dare look up.
"Excuse me... I... I didn't see you, I'm so sorry," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
"The fault was entirely mine, please, don't apologize," replied a deep, incredibly calm voice—the same one she had heard in her dreams and had noticed again at the restaurant a few days ago.
Lysandra finally looked up. And her violet eyes met Damien's dark, intense ones.
He was even more handsome up close. His chiseled features, his strong jawline, his perfectly styled dark hair—everything about him spoke of a refined elegance and a contained power. She realized the collision hadn't been entirely her fault; he had also moved without looking. And now, he was holding her by the waist with a naturalness that was both protective and disconcertingly intimate.
The overflow of emotions she had felt in recent days—the sadness, the confusion, the intrigue, the attraction she had felt at the cinema—seemed to culminate in that instant. This couldn't be happening! Not only was this handsome man saving her from a humiliating fall that she had partly caused, but it was him, the mysterious doctor who had watched her with such interest.
He helped her regain her composure, though his hands lingered a second longer than strictly necessary before letting go. "I'm sorry we met like this, in the middle of a whirlwind," Damien said, his mouth curving into a slight, enigmatic smile. He gracefully bent down to pick up the papers that had scattered on the floor and handed them to her. "It seems fate insists on having our paths cross in unconventional ways."
Lysandra took the papers, her fingers brushing against his, feeling a new electric shock. She was flushed, embarrassed, and strangely thrilled.
"But since fate, or my clumsiness," he continued, his gaze fixed on hers, intense and direct, "has put us in the same place, in this bar, in this spot… would it be too bold of me to suggest we turn this collision into an opportunity? Allow me to buy you a drink, as an apology for the scare."
He spoke like a true gentleman, his proposal smooth and tempting. And as Lysandra looked at him again, as she listened to that deep voice that was already familiar, as she observed the way the restaurant light played on his perfect features, the scattered fragments in her mind began to click into place with overwhelming certainty. The man from the other restaurant. The man who had watched her with such intensity. The voice she had heard in her dream, the one that had protected her in the jungle…
An almost imperceptible gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes widened with the impact of a revelation that was both terrifying and strangely inevitable.
This young man, this man is…