"Let's do this," Dalia whispered to herself as she stood before the Hotel. The towering structure loomed above her. Now he was her only chance at this, or she'll be stuck with those petty jobs.
"Hi, A reservation under Mr. Sinclare."
The receptionist offered a polite smile. "Certainly, Miss. Could you wait for a moment?"
Dalia turned away, taking in the grandiose surroundings once more. Even the sitting area seemed bigger than her entire house. Her gaze wandered aimlessly until it caught on someone entering through the front door.
Light, curly hair bounced effortlessly as he walked. A sky-colored hoodie and his eyes, his eyes—they looked puffy, red, as if he'd been crying.
Her feet moved instinctively toward him, but she stopped mid-step when the receptionist called her name.
"Miss Lombardi? Your reservation has been confirmed. Mr. Sinclare will meet you in a moment. Kindly wait in the lounge."
Dalia nodded lightly and made her way to the opulent couches in the center of the hall. She settled in, pulled out her phone, and opened her camera—
"Hi, beautiful!"
Startled, she looked up. Enzo's familiar grin met her, though his cheer seemed forced. His voice betrayed his exhaustion. Dalia gave him a soft smile, and for a moment, Enzo froze as if caught off guard.
Dalia frowned. "Uhm. Hi."
"Twice in a day. Must be fate, right? Please don't get mad. I am no strange man. I just—look, if you want me gone, say the word. No hard feelings."
"No, that's not—" She sighed. "Never mind. Look, about earlier…"
"I know. It was most definitely too impulsive to ask you at a hotel." he interrupted.
"I. Was. Still. Talking. But, uh, anyway—I'm sorry for leaving like that. I had an awful day and couldn't control my temper. I should've refused you politely. "She said in a matter of fact, don't push this tone.
"What are you doing here? Did you… reconsider and come here for me?"
Her soft chuckle made him blink.
"No, you're quite presumptuous, sir." she said with a shake of her head. "I have some business here."
"Miss Dalia Lombardi?"
A sharp voice cut through their exchange. A man in a tailored suit stood before them, his business-like demeanor radiating authority.
"Mr. Sinclaire" she stated, standing to greet him.
"Boyfriend?" Mr. Sinclare raised an eyebrow. Amusing. "I'm sorry, but this meeting is confidential, and unnecessary guests are strictly prohibited."
"No, not at—"
"Yes," Enzo interrupted, his smile wide as he reached for Dalia's hand.
Her sharp glare could've melted steel. "No. We're not—"
"Well then," Mr. Sinclare cut in, raising an eyebrow, "Miss Lombardi, I don't have time for this quarreling session of yours."
Dalia's expression turned steely. She shot Enzo a look that could have frozen the sun before turning back to Mr. Sinclare.
"Sir, as I've mentioned before, I do not know this man. He is merely an acquaintance I happened to meet earlier today. Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Lorenzo."
Most people forgot names. Dalia didn't.
Enzo opened his mouth to argue, but she was already walking away with Mr. Sinclare toward the elevator, her figure growing smaller with every step.
"I hope I wasn't too rude back there, Ms. Lombardi." Mr. Sinclaire began explaining as soon as they stepped into the private meeting room.
The room was a stark contrast to the lavish elegance of the Hotel Belmond Splendido. It was minimalist, almost unnervingly so—plain walls, a simple table, and chairs that were functional but far from luxurious. The lighting was harsh, almost clinical, bathing the room in a brightness that felt overbearing.
"I understand your point," Dalia replied, letting her gaze linger on the space. "But rest assured." Her voice was calm, though her unease with the room was hard to ignore. This place didn't seem unkind—yet it exuded an aura that made her instincts itch. It felt like the kind of room where too-good-to-be-true bargains were struck, only to reveal a devastating catch later.
"That's good to hear," Mr. Sinclaire said, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the chairs. "Shall we?"
He took his seat first, his movements deliberate but relaxed, as if he'd sat across countless tables like this before. Dalia followed suit, her posture composed but her mind alert.
"So, Ms. Lombardi," Sinclaire began, leaning forward slightly, "I trust you already know why you're here, the stakes and of course the return payment?"
"Of course, sir," Dalia replied smoothly, her expression giving nothing away.
"And I trust you'll hold up your end of the bargain?" he asked, his words laced with a faint edge.
"Surely, Mr. Sinclaire," she countered, her tone matching his sharpness
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________Dalia Lombardi lived two lives.
In one, she was just another fresh graduate. Hunting jobs. coffee runs, and a life so normal it was forgettable.
In the other, she was something else entirely.
Lucas Sinclaire had been searching for that other version of her. He had gone through encrypted trails, masked identities, and ghost accounts, piecing together a puzzle that led him here.
To a small, quiet coffee shop where she sat alone, a laptop open in front of her, fingers idly stirring a half-empty cup of coffee.
She didn't look like a hacker.
She looked like someone reviewing notes before a class. Like someone who didn't just wipe traces of her digital presence clean—she buried them.
But Lucas had dug deep enough. He knew.
With practiced ease, he walked up to her table and placed a small brown envelope down on the wooden surface. No words. Just that.
Dalia's stirring slowed, but she didn't look up. Instead, she finished one slow circle with her spoon, set it down, and then—finally—acknowledged him.
Dark eyes met his. Not startled. Not curious. Just… aware.
She knew.
Lucas slid into the seat across from her, watching as she reached for the envelope. She opened it with careful, almost lazy movements, but he didn't miss the way her fingers tensed slightly when she saw what was inside.
A printout. A piece of code. Her code.
Something she had written for a client under a fake name. Something that shouldn't be traceable back to her.
But here it was, in her hands.
Dalia let out a slow breath and leaned back. "You're either quite innocent or really dangerous"
Lucas smirked. "It matters?"
She closed the envelope and placed it neatly beside her coffee. "And what exactly do you want, Mr…?"
"Sinclaire."
She raised a brow. "Sinclaire." A small pause. "Your name's been floating around lately."
He hummed, tilting his head. "As has yours. Well… not yours exactly."
Dalia didn't react. Instead, she crossed her arms and exhaled through her nose, her gaze sharp. "Let me guess. You have a job."
Lucas rested his chin on his hand. "I have a question."
Silence.
Then, Dalia smirked—just barely. "And if I don't feel like answering?"
He leaned forward slightly. "Then I suppose I'll just have to make you interested."
Dalia tapped her fingers against her cup once. Twice.
Then, without another word, she stood up, grabbed the envelope, and walked away.
Lucas chuckled under his breath.
She would be calling him soon.
And he would be waiting.