PART 2.
The laughter continued as Matteo Cipriani crossed the ballroom.
One conversation after another died around him.
Mabel’s smile disappeared.
Ayla looked up, confused, as the powerful stranger stopped directly in front of her.
Then Matteo extended his hand.
For several seconds, Ayla simply stared at it.
She knew the name Matteo Cipriani.
Everyone in New York’s corporate circles did.
Some names opened doors.
His closed them.
Cipriani Holdings owned hotels, private security companies, shipping interests, real estate, restaurants, and enough pieces of other corporations that journalists often joked nobody truly knew where Matteo’s empire ended.
There were also stories.
Stories about competitors who had mocked him and found themselves bankrupt six months later.
Stories about politicians who returned his calls before answering their own families.
Stories about men who lowered their voices when he entered a room.
Jean Dubois had once described him during a company meeting with three words.
“Do not offend him.”
And now that man was standing in front of Ayla with his hand extended.
“Dance with me,” Matteo said.
Ayla blinked.
“Excuse me?”
His mouth barely moved, but something almost resembling amusement appeared in his eyes.
“You heard me.”
Mabel recovered first.
“Mr.
Cipriani,” she said quickly, stepping closer.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.
I’m Mabel Laurent.”
Matteo did not look at her.
His hand remained extended toward Ayla.
The rejection was so complete that Mabel’s carefully painted smile froze.
Ayla glanced around.
Everyone was watching.
Jean stood across the ballroom with a horrified expression.
Kitty’s warning echoed in Ayla’s mind.
Be careful.
Except Kitty had been talking about Mabel.
Not Matteo Cipriani.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Ayla whispered.
“Neither do I.”
That surprised her.
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because everyone here already decided what you’re worth.”
His gaze moved briefly toward Mabel.
“I dislike people who make decisions without sufficient information.”
Ayla should have refused.
Every instinct told her that accepting would create exactly the kind of attention she hated.
But then she saw Mabel.
Saw the expectation in her face.
The certainty that Ayla would shrink.
Retreat.
Apologize for existing.
Something inside Ayla hardened.
She placed her hand in Matteo’s.
The ballroom seemed to inhale.
Matteo closed his fingers gently around hers.
“Good,” he said.
He led her toward the dance floor.
Music continued from the quartet, though even the musicians appeared distracted.
As Matteo placed one hand against Ayla’s waist, she leaned closer.
“You realize everyone is staring.”
“They were staring before.”
“Yes, but now they’re terrified.”
“They have good instincts.”
Ayla almost laughed.
Almost.
“You say things like that intentionally, don’t you?”
“Usually.”
They began moving.
Matteo danced with effortless precision.
Ayla did not.
She stepped on his shoe within twenty seconds.
Her face went pale.
“Oh God.”
Matteo looked down.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You attacked me.”
“I didn’t attack you.”
“With a heel.”
“It was an accident.”
“Convenient excuse.”
She stared at him.
Then she realized he was teasing her.
Matteo Cipriani—the man half the room appeared afraid to breathe near—was teasing her.
Ayla laughed.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
Actually laughed.
And Matteo stopped for half a beat.
Because that laugh was exactly what he remembered from outside the café three weeks earlier.
Warm.
Uncalculated.
Real.
“You’re strange,” Ayla said.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure.”
He guided her smoothly around another couple.
Ayla lowered her voice.
“Why are you really doing this?”
Matteo’s expression changed.
“You want the polite answer?”
“No.”
“Good.
I dislike polite answers.”
His eyes held hers.
“I saw what they were doing.”
“So?”
“So I stopped it.”
“You stop every unpleasant conversation you see?”
“No.”
“Then why mine?”
There it was.
The question he had known would come.
Before Matteo could answer, the music ended.
Applause spread through the room, too enthusiastic and too nervous.
Ayla stepped away.
Matteo did not release her hand immediately.
Then a voice cut through the applause.
“Well.”
Jean Dubois approached.
His expression carried the strained excitement of a man who had just discovered his employee might suddenly become very useful.
“Mr.
Cipriani.
What an unexpected pleasure.”
Matteo finally released Ayla.
“Dubois.”
Jean smiled too broadly.
“I wasn’t aware you knew Ayla.”
“I do now.”
Jean glanced at her.
Something calculating passed through his eyes.
Ayla recognized it immediately.
She hated it.
“Of course,” Jean said.
“Ayla is one of our brightest talents.”
Ayla nearly choked.
Twenty minutes earlier, she had been an embarrassment in an inexpensive dress.
Now she was one of his brightest talents.
Matteo noticed too.
“Interesting.”
Jean’s smile weakened.
“Excuse me?”
“I said interesting.”
Matteo took a glass of water from a passing waiter and offered it to Ayla.
“Mr.
Dubois,” Ayla said quietly, “I think I’m going to leave.”
Jean’s face tightened.
“Leave?
The evening has barely begun.”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Nonsense.
You’re fine.”
Matteo turned his head.
That was all.
Jean immediately changed tone.
“Although, naturally, if you’re unwell…”
“I’ll arrange a car,” Matteo said.
“That isn’t necessary,” Ayla replied.
“I know.”
She frowned.
“Then why?”
“Because I want to.”
“There seems to be a lot of that tonight.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Yes.”
Mabel appeared beside them again.
Apparently humiliation had not defeated her ambition.
“Mr.
Cipriani, our company has been hoping to speak with you about the Aurora campaign.”
Jean brightened.
“Yes, actually.
We’ve prepared an extraordinary proposal.”
Matteo looked at Mabel for the first time.
Her posture instantly changed.
“Were you the woman speaking to Miss Morris earlier?”
Mabel hesitated.
“We were joking.”
“Were you?”
“Of course.”
“Explain the joke.”
Silence.
Mabel laughed nervously.
“You know how women are.”
“No.”
The single word landed like a stone.
Mabel swallowed.
“It was harmless.”
Matteo’s gaze moved to Ayla.
“Was it harmless?”
Every eye seemed to return to her.
Ayla hated this.
She did not want revenge.
She did not want another public spectacle.
But she was tired.
Tired of swallowing every insult so nobody else became uncomfortable.
“No,” she said.
Jean’s face fell.
Mabel stared at her.
Ayla continued.
“It wasn’t harmless.”
Matteo looked back at Mabel.
“Then I suppose the joke failed.”
He turned to Jean.
“Your Aurora proposal can be sent to my office.”
Jean exhaled in relief.
“But remove Mabel Laurent from the presentation.”
Mabel went white.
“What?”
Matteo continued as though she had not spoken.
“And Miss Morris will lead it.”
Ayla’s head snapped toward him.
Jean looked equally shocked.
“Ayla?”
“Yes.”
“With respect, Mr.
Cipriani, she’s relatively junior.”
“Then you should promote her.”
Ayla stared at him.
“Wait.”
Everyone went silent again.
Perhaps nobody interrupted Matteo Cipriani.
Ayla apparently had not received that information.
“You cannot just walk into my workplace and rearrange my career.”
Matteo studied her.
Jean looked as if he might faint.
“Ayla,” he whispered.
“No,” she said, her eyes still on Matteo.
“I appreciate what you did.
I do.
But I don’t want a promotion because somebody embarrassed me at a party and you decided to punish them.”
Something shifted in Matteo’s expression.
Not anger.
Interest.
“You think that’s why?”
“I don’t know why.
I don’t know you.”
“Fair.”
That answer disarmed her.
Matteo reached inside his jacket and removed a business card.
He handed it to her.
“Then perhaps you should.”
Ayla looked down at it.
MATTEO CIPRIANI
Chairman
Cipriani Holdings
A phone number had been written by hand on the back.
“My private number,” he said.
Mabel’s face tightened further.
Ayla looked up.
“I’m not promising to call.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You clearly expect me to.”
“I expect very little from people.”
For the first time, something colder entered his voice.
“It prevents disappointment.”
Then he stepped away.
“Kyle.”
His right-hand man appeared almost instantly.
“Have the car brought around.”
Ayla started to protest.
Matteo lifted one eyebrow.
“You may refuse the car if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you take the subway alone at midnight in those shoes, I’ll question your judgment.”
Ayla looked down at her shoes.
“They were on sale.”
“I’m sure that makes them excellent for fighting criminals.”
She laughed again despite herself.
Matteo turned and walked away.
The ballroom separated before him.
And Ayla suddenly realized everyone was looking at her differently.
Not kindly.
Not warmly.
But differently.
Which somehow felt worse.
—
The next morning, Ayla arrived at Laurent Inc. at 8:47.
By 8:49, she knew something was wrong.
People stopped talking when she walked past.
Three coworkers smiled at her who had never smiled before.
Someone from accounting actually offered her coffee.
Then Kitty came running from the elevator.
“What did you DO?”
Ayla closed her eyes.
“I danced.”
“With Matteo Cipriani!”
“Apparently.”
“Apparently?”
Kitty grabbed both her arms.
“Do you understand what’s happening?”
“I was there.”
“No.
Online.”
Ayla’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Kitty shoved her phone forward.
A photograph filled the screen.
Matteo’s hand rested at Ayla’s waist.
Ayla was looking up at him.
He was looking down at her.
The angle made the moment appear far more intimate than Ayla remembered.
The headline read:
MYSTERY WOMAN CAPTURES BILLIONAIRE MATTEO CIPRIANI’S ATTENTION AT PLAZA GALA
“Oh no.”
“There’s more.”
“I don’t want more.”
“There’s always more.”
Another article.
WHO IS AYLA MORRIS?
Another.
CIPRIANI’S NEW ROMANCE?
Ayla covered her face.
“I’m going to die.”
“Not before telling me everything.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You danced with him.”
“Yes.”
“He gave you his private number.”
Ayla slowly lowered her hands.
“How do you know that?”
Kitty froze.
Then looked guilty.
Ayla narrowed her eyes.
“Kit.”
“Someone saw him hand you the card.”
“Who?”
“Approximately everyone.”
Ayla groaned.
Before Kitty could continue, Jean’s assistant approached.
“Mr.
Dubois wants to see you immediately.”
Of course he did.
Jean’s office occupied the corner of the thirty-second floor.
When Ayla entered, Mabel was already inside.
So was the company president.
And legal counsel.
Ayla stopped.
“This looks comforting.”
No one laughed.
Jean pointed toward a chair.
“Sit.”
She did.
Jean folded his hands.
“We received a call from Cipriani Holdings this morning.”
Ayla’s heart skipped.
“About the Aurora campaign?”
“Yes.”
Jean glanced at the president.
“They want a revised pitch tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?”
“And they specifically requested you.”
Mabel crossed her arms.
“I still don’t understand this.
She’s never led an account of this size.”
The company president ignored her.
“Ayla, Aurora is potentially worth forty million dollars over three years.”
Ayla stared.
Forty million.
“You want me to pitch a forty-million-dollar account tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Jean’s eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“I can’t prepare properly in twenty-four hours.”
Mabel smirked.
“There.
She admits she isn’t ready.”
Ayla turned toward her.
“I said twenty-four hours isn’t enough.
I didn’t say I couldn’t do it.”
Mabel’s smirk faded.
Ayla faced Jean again.
“If you want me leading this pitch, I choose the team.”
Jean hesitated.
“Within reason.”
“No Mabel.”
The room went still.
Mabel stood.
“You little—”
“And I want Kitty Chen.”
Kitty worked in research and was routinely ignored despite producing half the data senior executives presented as their own.
Jean frowned.
“She’s not client-facing.”
“She is tomorrow.”
The president leaned back.
“Anything else?”
Ayla thought about years of invisible work.
About ideas taken without credit.
About Jean criticizing her dress while praising her talent only when a billionaire noticed.
“Yes.”
She looked directly at Jean.
“If we win the account, Kitty gets promoted to senior strategist.”
Jean’s face darkened.
“And you?”
Ayla hesitated.
Then remembered Matteo saying:
Then you should promote her.
She hated that the words gave her courage.
“Creative director.”
Mabel laughed.
“That’s absurd.”
The president did not.
He looked at Ayla for a long moment.
“Win the account.”
Ayla’s pulse pounded.
“And?”
“You’ll have your title.”
Mabel stood abruptly.
“This is unbelievable.”
The president finally looked at her.
“Mabel, sit down.”
“No.
She’s manipulating this entire situation because Cipriani likes her.”
Ayla rose too.
“I never asked him to.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Mabel stepped closer.
“You wore your little innocent-girl costume and waited for someone powerful to rescue you.”
Ayla’s face hardened.
“You think this is rescue?”
“What else would you call it?”
“A problem.”
For the first time, Mabel looked confused.
Ayla continued.
“Because if I succeed tomorrow, everyone will say it was because Matteo wanted me there.
And if I fail, everyone will say I never belonged there.”
Mabel said nothing.
“That’s not rescue,” Ayla said.
“That’s pressure.”
Then she walked out.
—
At 11:30 that night, Ayla was still at the office.
Coffee cups surrounded her laptop.
Presentation boards covered the conference room walls.
Kitty lay across two chairs reading demographic reports.
“I have lost feeling in my spine.”
“Useful.
You can work longer.”
“You’ve become cruel with power.”
“I learned from Jean.”
Kitty laughed.
Then she sat up.
“Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“Great.
Why does Matteo Cipriani care about you?”
Ayla stopped typing.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You really have no idea?”
Ayla reached into her purse.
The business card was still there.
She had stared at the number at least twelve times.
Never called.
Kitty noticed.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You want to call him.”
“I want answers.”
“That’s how every terrible romance begins.”
“This isn’t a romance.”
“Sure.”
Ayla rolled her eyes.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Both women froze.
Kitty whispered, “If that’s him, I’m going to scream.”
Ayla answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
“Miss Morris?”
Not Matteo.
The voice was older.
“Yes?”
“You don’t know me.”
Ayla straightened.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Gabriel Mercer.”
Kitty watched her expression change.
Gabriel continued.
“I worked for Cipriani Holdings seventeen years ago.”
Ayla’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“I think you should stay away from Matteo Cipriani.”
Ayla’s chest went cold.
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Because Matteo didn’t notice you three weeks ago.”
Ayla stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He knew who you were before that.”
The conference room suddenly seemed very quiet.
Gabriel spoke more softly.
“And if I’m right, he’s been looking for you for years.”
The line disconnected.
Ayla stared at the phone.
Kitty stood.
“What happened?”
Ayla slowly turned toward her.
Before she could answer, the lights went out.
Every light.
The conference room.
Hallway.
Entire floor.
Darkness swallowed them.
“Kit?”
“I’m here.”
Emergency lighting flickered on.
Ayla’s phone vibrated again.
This time, a text message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
DON’T GO TO CIPRIANI HOLDINGS TOMORROW.
A second message arrived.
ASK MATTEO WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER.
Ayla stopped breathing.
Her father.
Daniel Morris had died when Ayla was eight years old.
At least that was what her mother had always told her.
A highway accident.
Rain.
A truck that crossed the center line.
Nothing mysterious.
Nothing connected to billionaires.
Nothing connected to Matteo Cipriani.
Kitty read over her shoulder.
“Oh my God.”
Ayla’s hands began trembling.
Then another message appeared.
A photograph.
Old.
Grainy.
Taken nearly twenty years earlier.
Two men stood outside a warehouse.
One was unmistakably a younger Matteo Cipriani.
The other—
Ayla nearly dropped the phone.
“No.”
Kitty looked closer.
“Ayla…”
“No.”
The second man was Daniel Morris.
Her father.
Alive.
Standing beside Matteo.
And written across the bottom of the photograph in faded blue ink were five words:
DANIEL, MATTEO — OCTOBER 14, 2008.
But Ayla’s father had supposedly died in 2007.
A year earlier.
Her phone rang.
This time the caller ID displayed a name.
MATTEO CIPRIANI.
Kitty whispered, “Don’t answer.”
Ayla stared at the screen.
The phone continued ringing.
Something inside her told her Gabriel Mercer’s warning mattered.
Something else told her Matteo already knew exactly what she had just received.
She answered.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Then Matteo said quietly,
“You saw the photograph.”
Not a question.
Ayla’s blood turned cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been waiting seventeen years for someone to send it to you.”
Her knees nearly gave way.
“What does that mean?”
“Ayla—”
“My father died when I was eight.”
Silence.
“Matteo.”
His breathing changed.
“My father died when I was eight!”
“No,” Matteo said.
The single word shattered something inside her.
Ayla gripped the table.
“What?”
“Daniel Morris did not die in that accident.”
Kitty covered her mouth.
Ayla’s voice became barely audible.
“Then where is he?”
Matteo did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, all warmth had disappeared from his voice.
“Do not come to my office tomorrow.”
Ayla stared into the darkened conference room.
“Why?”
“Because someone knows I found you.”
“Who?”
“Someone I hoped was dead.”
A sound came from the hallway.
A footstep.
Then another.
Kitty turned toward the glass doors.
“Ayla…”
A shadow passed outside.
Matteo’s voice sharpened instantly.
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
“Are you alone?”
“Kitty’s here.”
“Lock the door.”
Ayla’s heart slammed.
“What?”
“Lock it now.”
The handle moved.
Kitty rushed forward and turned the lock.
Someone on the other side stopped.
Matteo was already shouting to someone away from the phone.
“Kyle, get the car.”
The hallway figure remained motionless beyond the glass.
Ayla couldn’t see the face.
Only the outline.
Tall.
Male.
Watching.
“Ayla,” Matteo said.
“Yes?”
“Listen carefully.”
The figure lifted one hand.
Pressed something against the glass.
A photograph.
Then walked away.
Kitty waited several seconds before opening the door.
“No,” Ayla whispered.
But Kitty had already stepped into the hallway.
The stranger was gone.
Only the photograph remained.
Kitty picked it up.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Kitty said nothing.
Ayla grabbed it.
The photograph showed a little girl sitting on a swing.
Dark hair.
Missing front tooth.
Yellow summer dress.
Ayla.
She remembered the day.
Her eighth birthday.
Her father had taken her to the park.
On the back, someone had written:
HE LIED TO YOU.
Below it was another sentence.
MATTEO CIPRIANI WAS THERE THE NIGHT YOUR FATHER DISAPPEARED.
Ayla lifted the phone slowly.
“Matteo.”
“I’m here.”
“Tell me the truth.”
He said nothing.
“Were you there?”
A long silence followed.
Then:
“Yes.”
The word struck harder than any insult Mabel had delivered.
Ayla shut her eyes.
“Did you hurt him?”
“No.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“I can’t explain this over the phone.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
“No,” Matteo said quietly.
“But I do get to decide whether I tell you something that could get you killed while you’re standing in an unsecured building.”
Sirens sounded faintly outside.
Ayla looked through the windows toward the street.
Three black vehicles pulled to the curb.
Matteo had moved frighteningly fast.
“What was my father to you?”
Another silence.
When Matteo answered, his voice sounded different.
Not cold.
Not powerful.
Almost ashamed.
“He saved my life.”
Ayla stared at the photograph in her hand.
“And seventeen years ago,” Matteo continued, “I failed to save his.”
Her chest tightened.
“But you said he didn’t die.”
“I said he didn’t die in the accident.”
The distinction struck her immediately.
“Matteo…”
Footsteps entered the office.
Fast.
Several men.
Then Kyle Torres appeared through the hallway with two security officers.
He looked directly at Ayla.
“We need to leave.”
Ayla refused to move.
“Where?”
Kyle hesitated.
Matteo answered through the phone.
“To me.”
Ayla looked down at the two photographs.
One showed a father she had mourned.
The other showed a childhood someone had apparently been watching.
Yesterday, her greatest problem had been a cheap black dress in a room filled with expensive people.
Now someone had entered her workplace.
Someone knew about her father.
Someone knew Matteo.
And the most feared man in New York had apparently been searching for her since she was a child.
Ayla slowly picked up her coat.
“Fine.”
Kyle opened the door.
Kitty followed.
But before Ayla stepped into the hallway, her phone buzzed one final time.
Another message.
Not from Gabriel.
Not from Matteo.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Ayla opened it.
Three words appeared.
HE’S STILL ALIVE.
Ayla stopped walking.
Attached beneath the message was a photograph taken that morning.
An older man sat outside a small café.
Gray hair.
Deep lines around his eyes.
But Ayla recognized him instantly.
She would have recognized him anywhere.
Her father.
Daniel Morris.
Alive.
And sitting across the table from him—
was Jean Dubois.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
READ FULL PART 2:
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
