London, 1997 The restaurant was small but warm—one of those hidden gems tucked away in the winding streets of Camden, lit only by the golden flicker of candles and the soft amber glow of wine swirling in crystal glasses. The murmur of quiet conversations blended with the faint notes of a jazz record playing somewhere in the background. Isabella Iero sat at their table near the window, her fingers nervously folding and unfolding the linen napkin on her lap. Every movement felt exaggerated under the dim light, as if her nerves had taken control of her hands. Across from her, Damon Albarn spoke easily, his voice low and steady, telling her about the office, about how his day went, and the latest nonsense his colleagues had done that day. He seemed perfectly at ease, leaning back in his chair with that familiar air of quiet confidence that always made her chest tighten. Isabella forced a smile, hoping it would hide the restless tremor running through her body. Damon, however, wasn’t easily fooled. “You’re strangely quiet today.” He said, raising one eyebrow as he rested his chin on his hand, his gaze fixed on her like he was trying to read her mind.