HIS BELLA

Chap. 21

ISABELLA

I lay my head over the seat and close my eyes briefly exhaling as my mind unknowingly wonders to Leo I haven't seen him since the night I remember in blur of him kissing my forehead before I drifted to sleep again .

Today we are leaving as from Italy and I'll most definitely miss this place and little Giovanni he held me so tightly while I was leaving I almost cried at the moment. I was hoping to see leo today on the jet with us but there's no sign of him . is not going to come ?

" Isa do you want these ? " I open my eyes hearing Emilia usuring towards the cookies in her hands as I swiftly took one chewing on it I can never say no to cookies .

Matteo and Marco are sitting in front of us with emilia by my side it's just four of us and of course few bodyguards who I cannot spot right they might be in the back I guess this jet is quite big .

" I'm starting to feel they might be actually a thing at this point " Matteo says moving the tablet towards us as I see Leonardo dressed in an all black suit with his hair pulled back as the suit fits perfectly over his body and arms.... I see a slender hand clinging over his arms .My eyes finally move over the women standing beside  him.

Her face is flawless—like something straight out of a Vogue spread. High cheekbones, full lips painted in a muted red, and those cat-like eyes that seem to hold the world’s confidence in them. Her dark hair is sleek and pulled into a sophisticated bun, not a strand out of place. Everything about her oozes elegance and poise.

“She’s stunning,” Matteo mutters almost like he’s reading my mind.

I don’t respond.

Because she is stunning. Painfully so. The kind of woman who doesn’t even need to try. The kind of woman who walks into a room and everyone turns to look—and stays looking. There’s an easy grace in the way she holds herself, like she knows her worth and doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.

I tap the screen and zoom in a little—bad idea. Now I can see the shimmer of her designer dress, custom-fit, hugging her waist probably tailored by famous designers . The slit on her thigh is just enough to tease, but tasteful enough to make it look like art. Even the way her hand clings to Leonardo’s arm feels effortless. Familiar. Intimate.

“She’s a model,” Marco adds in, as if I needed another reason to feel like someone just punched the breath out of me. “Italian. Milan runway regular, I think.”

Of course she is.

Why wouldn’t she be?

She probably speaks many languages, drinks black coffee , and knows which wine pairs with which cheese. She’s the kind of woman you see in magazines, the kind you expect to be on Leonardo’s arm—not...me .

Not the girl who still gets excited over cookies and trips on her own feet sometimes. Not the girl who feels too much, laughs too loud, and wears her heart way too obviously on her sleeve.

I blink away the growing sting in my eyes and push the tablet back toward Matteo.

“She’s pretty,” I manage to say, keeping my voice light.
But inside, a whisper lingers louder than ever: