Chapter 1

One last chance.

The cold slipped under the skin like knives. The operating room, white and sterile, smelled of disinfectant and hopelessness. The overhead lights turned on one by one, casting an implacable clarity on the metal stretcher.

There, surrounded by doctors with faces hidden behind surgical masks, lay the fragile body of Issabelle Mancini.

Her face still retained some of that classic Italian beauty she had inherited from her mother, but now it was devoid of makeup, covered in an almost ghostly pallor.

Her cold, sweaty hands, tied to the monitor cables, trembled imperceptibly. Her body, weakened by months of pain and silent deterioration, barely reacted to stimuli.

Her cheekbones were sunken and her belly barely hinted at the presence of a small being struggling to exist alongside her.

A soft but firm voice broke through the hum of the machines.

How was it possible that her mind was still conscious when her entire body was anesthetized?

"We begin the intervention. Left parietal tumor. We proceed with temporal incision."

The scalpel cut the skin with clinical precision. The room remained in a contained silence, barely broken by the constant beeping of the heart monitor.

Each of the doctors around her knew their role: one opened the skull with a calculated turn, another aspirated the cerebrospinal fluid that was accumulating, while the team leader, Dr. Moretti, leaned in to locate the cancerous tumor.

That dark mass, barely visible between the folds of the brain, had grown stealthily for months, robbing Issabelle of energy, the memory of happy days with her parents, the hope of a future with Enzo and the baby that was just beginning to form in her womb.

"Blood pressure stable... for now," the anesthesiologist murmured, watching the monitor with a furrowed brow.

Every second was a dance between life and death. The surgeons knew they were on the edge of the impossible. That there were more shadows than certainties. But Issabelle had asked to fight. Until the end.

"Incision complete," announced Dr. Moretti in a voice that tried to remain firm. "Let's go to the origin of the tumor."

That same morning, Issabelle signed the pre-hospitalization papers with trembling hands, without witnesses, without family.

Without a loving husband promising to wait for the outcome of the operation on the verge of despair on the other side of the door.

Because there was simply no one around her who cared about her life... or even her death.

Enzo Milani, the man she married, never set foot in the house again. He always had an excuse for her, he was always tired or had work to do, but soon Issabelle realized that there was someone else in the middle of their marriage like a shadow that did not allow her to reach the heart of her beloved husband.

"Intracranial pressure rising... careful with the edema..."

A strange sound interrupted the concentration of those present. A different beep. A high-pitched one. Fast.

"We're losing pressure! She's bleeding more than expected!"

The chief surgeon's eyes widened in alarm as he watched the blood flow with unexpected violence. An uncontrollable hemorrhage.

The scalpel moved forward carefully.

For an instant, everything seemed to slow down: the murmur of the machines, the slight dripping of blood, the contained sigh of the surgeons. And then, a silent burst: a blood vessel broke.

The blood gushed with the violence of an underground spring, staining the whiteness of the surgical field red.

"Hemorrhage!" shouted one of the residents. "We're losing control!"

Issabelle's breathing began to fail. The anesthesiologist pressed the buttons on the table, trying to stabilize her, while another surgeon shouted:

"We need O positive blood, now!"

One of the doctors ran to the internal phone.

"We need O positive blood urgently in operating room 3! Now!"

The assistant on the other end of the line hesitated.

"I-I must confirm it... there seems to have been a mistake... the blood bank... is empty."

"How empty?" he shouted desperately.

"It disappeared. The entire batch of O positive. We don't know how..."

The surgeon cast a desperate look at the team. He knew what that meant. Without an immediate transfusion, they would lose the patient.

A cold, misplaced silence settled in the operating room. Not even the insistent beeping of the monitor could be heard now. The medical team looked at each other, aware that the gap in the blood reserves was a death sentence.

"Try to stabilize her. Quick!" Dr. Moretti shouted with contained fury.

But the color in the woman's face was already fading. The machine that monitored her heartbeat began to mark irregularities. The beeping became intermittent, then slower.

The hemorrhage was expanding. Issabelle's eyes, half-open under sedation, filled with involuntary tears. Her mind, barely conscious, clung to the last thoughts.

Is this how it all ends? Alone... without love... without redemption?

She felt the warmth of the blood escaping, but also, in the midst of the chaos, the memory brought back images she refused to forget: Enzo waiting for her at the altar. The church organ playing as she walked towards him. Their hands intertwined. The promise of eternal love.

"In sickness and in health," he had said. And in five years of marriage, he never kept his promise.

"If I could go back... if only I could..."

The beeping stopped. Everything went silent.

The monitor showed a straight line. White. Immovable.

The sound of death.

"Time of death, 15:47," announced one of the doctors, with a muted voice.

The chief surgeon stepped back with his gloves stained with blood and a devastated expression.

No one in the room spoke a word. You could feel the weight of failure, but more than that, the tragedy of a life extinguished without anyone waiting for her in the adjoining room.

No hugs. No flowers. No tears, and in that last instant of consciousness, when life was escaping like sand through her fingers, Issabelle Mancini wished with all her being for a second chance.

She wanted revenge, but more than that, she longed to turn back time and love herself so much that she could not allow anyone else to humiliate her as they had done.

"If I were granted one last chance, I would like to go back to the day I married Enzo, and this time I would make sure to change my destiny," she thought.

And then darkness enveloped her. Not as an end, but as a portal.

There her life ended. And yet, it was also where everything began.

That promise became a silent contract: Issabelle Mancini would not accept her destiny. Not Enzo's betrayal, she would no longer endure Eva's humiliations.

She would be reborn to rewrite her story. To reclaim her dignity. But above all, to love without fear.

Chapter 2

The Awakening of a Queen.

The silence of the suite was the first thing that greeted Issabelle when she opened her eyes. An almost voluptuous silence, as if the velvet walls and white damask curtains contained the murmur of the world to leave her alone with her new breath.

The morning came through a Gothic arched window, bathing the room in a golden glow.

Issabelle felt the softness of the silk sheets on her skin.

She took a deep breath and, for an instant, thought she heard the distant echo of that freezing operating room. She felt her pulse in her temples, a knot of contained emotion in her throat.

Then she remembered:

"I am alive."

Her hand traveled instinctively to her belly: there she no longer felt that tiny heartbeat that vibrated with her.

She got up straight to the window. She opened the curtains a little. Under the balcony stretched the hotel terrace: red geraniums, jasmine vines, and beyond the silhouette of the Italian coast bathed in blue. The sea sparkled like a mantle of sapphires.

An aroma of salt and citrus floated with the breeze. Issabelle closed her eyes and inhaled, feeling like the owner of that instant.

But the instant was broken by the sound of the door opening.

Enzo appeared in the doorway, impeccable in his dark suit. The morning sun outlined his profile: a firm jaw, a clear forehead, brown hair combed back.

It was the first time he had spoken to her since that fragmented memory of the wedding.

His voice came soft, but firm:

"Issabelle... we must return to Sicily. The charity dinner starts at eight. Can you get ready in half an hour?"

She turned her face calmly. She observed the perfectly knotted tie, the immaculate shirt, the gold watch peeking out from under the cuff.

She felt the old pinch of disappointment: again, he was treating her like a second-class guest, always in a hurry, with no time for her.

"Of course," Issabelle replied, in a neutral tone. "Half an hour."

Enzo tilted his lips in a grimace that pretended to be a paternal smile, and turned to leave. Before closing the door, he paused for a moment:

"Issabelle," he said, "I trust you will not give me any problems."

She clenched her fists, containing the lash of rage and pride. In her past life, that day had been a dagger: Eva Longo, Enzo's sponsored pupil, the fresh and confident young woman who hinted at a future with her husband. But this time Issabelle was not afraid.

"There will be no problems," she murmured, without looking at him.

The door closed with a click that echoed in the silence. Issabelle remained for a moment in absolute calm, listening to the beating of her own heart. Then, she went to the dressing room.

The closet opened like a sanctuary of fabrics: dresses hung on satin hangers, high heels lined up like crystal soldiers, jewelry boxes with pearls and diamonds.

Issabelle slid her fingers over a white silk dress that reached her ankles, with a subtle neckline and a waist marked by a beaded belt. She took it and held it against her body.

That was the dress of the new Issabelle: elegant, imposing, mistress of her destiny.

At the dressing table, the mirror reflected a familiar, yet transformed, image.

Her face, framed by dark waves that fell like a cascade, showed firm cheekbones and large eyes, now full of determination.

She applied a light base, just a touch of blush to highlight the curve of her cheeks. A subtle eyeliner enhanced her eyelashes, and a mauve tone tinged her lips with a nuance of certainty.

As she dressed, she closed her eyes and remembered the last time she dressed up for her husband at an opening party, hoping to seduce him.

That day Eva approached, smiled smugly, and whispered in his ear, displacing her world.

But now Issabelle was not waiting for his approval. She put on the dress, adjusted the belt, put on her stiletto heels. She took a step forward and evaluated her reflection: her slender figure, her back straight, her presence imposing.

She nodded with satisfaction.

She went down the glass elevator and crossed the lobby without haste.

A hotel employee opened the door of the vehicle: a black sedan was waiting for her.

Enzo was leaning on the hood, next to Alonso, his assistant.

Alonso, a middle-aged man with thin glasses and a servile gesture, bowed when he saw her:

"Mrs. Milani... I must say that today you look... much more beautiful than Miss Eva."

Issabelle felt Enzo's gaze fixed on Alonso. A flash of jealousy crossed her husband's eyes, and Alonso coughed, nervous.

Issabelle flashed a cold, almost glacial smile, which curved her lips with contained elegance.

"Thank you," she replied.

Without another word, she slid into the vehicle. She sat with her back straight, her hands resting on her lap, her chin slightly raised.

Enzo opened the passenger door and got in.

The car started silently, gliding down the avenue.

As the vehicle moved forward, Issabelle rested her hand on the window, feeling the fresh air that came in gusts.

Each building seemed to greet her with complicity. The sea appeared to her left, bright, immense.

Enzo broke the silence:

"This dinner is very important. New entrepreneurs, the construction company's partners... everyone will be there. They want to meet the new Mrs. Milani."

Issabelle looked at him sideways, without dwelling on his masculine beauty or on the hint of concern that peeked out in his eyes.

"I know. I will be up to the task."

Enzo tilted his head, surprised by that serene and confident tone. He wanted to ask more, to scrutinize her gaze, but he restrained himself.

The vehicle turned onto the highway leading to the private airport. The sun was already high, igniting flashes on the metal of the vehicle and on the windows of the buildings.

Issabelle closed her eyes for a moment and repeated the promise in her mind: "No more humiliations. No more submission. This time, I make the rules."

She felt the beating of her heart. She lowered the window a little and inhaled the salty air. In the distance, the hills of Sicily emerged like an ancient promise.

There, on the island bathed in sunshine, she would once again face the history that had condemned her. But she would no longer be the same woman who trembled at Eva's taunts or Enzo's contempt.

Enzo watched her sideways and felt a chill. That Issabelle was a queen awakening from a long captivity.

Her beauty was the same, but now it radiated a fire that he did not know. And, for the first time, he understood that perhaps he had underestimated the woman he was never interested in knowing.

Without exchanging more words, the car advanced towards the horizon. The sea, the hills and the sky formed a setting worthy of a rebirth.

Issabelle, with her chin raised and her gaze fixed on the line where the blue merged with the light, knew that that trip would not be a simple charity dinner. It would be the prelude to her own revolution.

Chapter 3

The Antechamber of Revolution

The lobby of the Hotel Excelsior di Sicilia unfolded before Issabelle like a hall of infinite mirrors. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, scattering iridescent flashes over the gilded marble.

Corinthian columns and garnet velvet curtains framed a gigantic Renaissance tapestry depicting a grape harvest in the Sicilian countryside. The air smelled of fresh gardenias and the faint smoke of candles lit in silver candelabras.

Issabelle descended from the vehicle with a firm step, the heels of her stilettos resonating like a sure metronome on the red carpet.

Her white silk dress billowed behind her, broken only by the gentle swaying of her jeweled waist. In the golden twilight, her skin seemed luminous, her dark hair a hypnotic contrast.

The flashes of photographers crackled around her, capturing her image in a hundred angles.

To her left, the siren of a video camera announced the arrival of another person; to her right, a group of partners whispered as she passed. Barely audible voices floated in the air:

"Is she Mrs. Milani?"

"She arrived alone... again."

"She looks imposing, don't you think?"

"But what good is it to her? If she has to walk the carpet with her husband's lackey."

But those words, harsh, piercing, now bounced off an iron armor.

Issabelle raised her chin, picked up her satin clutch with a soft hand, and moved forward, without stopping to smile or greet. Each step was a deliberate act of authority: each look given to her became a piece of information.

At her side advanced Alonso, Enzo's assistant, impeccable in a tuxedo, carrying Issabelle's jacket in one arm.

He whispered:

"Madam... I have prepared a list of the most influential guests. Would you like me to...?"

Issabelle raised a finger, telling him to be silent. She looked around with the eyes of a strategist.

She recognized Count Ferrara, who years ago bought land next to her family; Baroness De Luca, an expert in philanthropy; young entrepreneur Rossi, who financed clean energy projects. Each name activated in her mind a possibility of alliance.

"Alonso," she said at last, in a low voice, "take mental note: Ferrara and Rossi. They will come to greet me today, and they will talk about investments. I want to explore a partnership with both. Then, approach Baroness De Luca."

Alonso nodded respectfully, surprised by Issabelle's precision. This was not the fearful woman of before: she was a leader who handled the board with expert hands.

As Issabelle advanced, a man at one end of the lobby watched her from behind an arch of columns. Giordanno Lombardi, standing next to his assistant Gabrielle, kept his hands in the pockets of his dark pants.

His bearing was haughty, almost feline: tailored suit, silk shirt without a tie, a burgundy pocket square. His clear eyes followed Issabelle's every move, as if measuring the strength of an unknown magnet.

Gabrielle, an enthusiastic young man, tilted his head and asked in a low voice:

"Who is that woman?" Giordanno asked, without taking his eyes off Issabelle.

"Which one, sir?" he replied with a slight smile of suspicion. "Don't tell me you've become interested in someone... At last."

"The one in white, Gabrielle. The one walking alone, I see the whole room is talking about her."

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow, without missing a detail.

"That woman is Issabelle Mancini," Gabrielle said, "Enzo Milani's wife, our possible partner, sir."

Giordanno smiled slowly, a gesture full of promise.

"Interesting," he muttered. "A partner who arrives accompanied by an enigma."

Enzo appeared on the other side of the room, taken by the arm of a slender, short woman.

Dressed in white just like Issabelle, but in Lombardi's eyes, no one could match her.

The flashes exploded again. The interior garden, visible through the windows, was illuminated with torches and tables set for the gala. Enzo stopped for a moment, saw Issabelle pass by escorted by Alonso, and felt a tinge of jealousy.

Eva whispered something in Enzo's ear, and he smiled politely, but his gaze returned again and again to Issabelle. That distance between them, physical and emotional, opened like an abyss.

Giordanno saw her —laughed to himself— and knew that the real contest was not of business, but of wills and passions.

Issabelle arrived at the antechamber of the grand salon where the charity dinner would take place. A gallery of antique paintings and gold-framed mirrors formed an endless corridor.

There, under the light of candelabras, Count Ferrara was waiting for her. A gray-haired man, with exquisite manners and an easy smile.

"Mrs. Milani," he said bowing, "an honor to greet you. I have heard that you have very innovative ideas for the development of the coast."

"Count Ferrara," Issabelle replied, shaking his hand. "I have studied your projects in Taormina. I believe that if we combine your experience in coastal lands with my vision of sustainable boutique hotels… we could create something unique."

Ferrara nodded enthusiastically. As they spoke, Issabelle already mentally saw plans, budgets, deadlines. Each word was a piece that fit into her master plan.

A few steps away, the businessman Rossi approached, introduced by Alonso. They made a display of courtesies, talked about solar energy, investments in organic agriculture, social responsibility.

Issabelle listened, proposed, negotiated. With each interlocutor, her confidence grew.

In an elevated box, Eva observed the scene with contained rage.

Her face showed that mixture of arrogance and fear: she saw Issabelle shine and understood that this time there would be no opportunity to knock her down. Her lips tightened.

"That woman... is not the same," she whispered to herself.

When Issabelle returned after sealing the preliminary agreement with Rossi, Giordanno intercepted her in a narrower section of the corridor. He bowed politely.

"Mrs. Mancini," he said, in a soft voice. "Allow me to congratulate you. I have observed your speech with Ferrara and Rossi. Your clarity of ideas… is impressive."

Issabelle raised her chin, measuring the man in front of her. She felt a slight tremor of surprise: his voice, his manners, his presence... everything in Giordanno radiated serene power.

"Mr. Lombardi," she replied. "Thank you for your words. Your reputation precedes you: your hotel empire and construction company are legendary."

He smiled.

"I would like to talk business with you, but... also about other things. Will you grant me this dance later?"

Issabelle's heart beat a little faster. It was not a banal offering: it was an invitation to an unknown terrain, where power and passion intertwine.

She hesitated for a moment, remembering the promise she made to herself: she would not give her heart so soon, nor would she let anyone divert her from her mission.

"Maybe later," she replied lightly. "First, there are matters to resolve."

Giordanno nodded, respectful.

"Whenever you like."

As he walked away, Issabelle realized that this man was not a threat, but a potential ally and a personal challenge.

Enzo, from the entrance of the grand salon, contemplated the scene without knowing everything. He saw Issabelle exchange words with Ferrara, Eva look at her with rancor, Giordanno bow before her. He felt jealousy, pride and, for the first time, fear: the woman he thought he had subdued was becoming the center of her own universe.

The string orchestra began to play a prelude. Guests settled at their tables. The charity gala had begun.

Issabelle, in the antechamber of that hall of mirrors and torches, raised her head and took a deep breath. Every beat of her heart said:

"This time I'm in charge."

And as the doors opened, the reborn queen crossed the threshold, ready to conquer not only alliances, but her own destiny.