The Bracelet's Secret

The opulent ballroom buzzed with the hollow sounds of forced pleasantries and the rustle of expensive gowns.

You, Isabella, stood beside your 'parents', a polite smile plastered on your face, masking the weariness in your eyes.

Another couple approached, their faces a blur in the endless procession of indistinguishable socialites.

Your mother's whisper, sharp and cruel, cut through the polite chatter, a familiar sting in your ear: "Stand up straight, you look like a pig."

You straightened your posture, the ingrained fear of repercussions overriding the dull ache in your bones.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. The grand doors of the ballroom swung open, and a wave of tension washed over the crowd.

Leonardo Russo had arrived. Feared, not just respected. And for some inexplicable reason, his eyes locked onto yours.