London, 1994. The Albarn Industries building rose like a block of concrete and glass in the middle of the gray city, always wrapped in a fog that seemed never to fully lift. Isabella Iero knew every corridor of that place, every creak of the old floors on the higher levels, every coffee stain on the carpet of the third floor. Working there wasn’t just a job — it was part of her life. Keith Albarn often said that without Isabella, the company would collapse like a house of cards. And he truly believed it. He trusted her more than many directors, more than executives who earned three times her salary. Isabella was his assistant, yes, but also his silent adviser, his right hand, the person who knew exactly when to interrupt him and when to leave him alone. That was why, when Keith announced he would be away on a business trip for two months, Isabella wasn’t worried. Until he finished the sentence. “My son will take over while I’m gone.” Damon Albarn. The name hung in the air like old dust. Isabella already knew him — not personally, but from the framed portrait in Keith’s office. A man with a sharp gaze, a posture far too confident, almost defiant. Handsome, she admitted, but with something in his expression that suggested he would be difficult. On Damon’s first day in charge, Isabella was impeccable: dark skirt, crisp white blouse, hair pulled back with precision. Professional. Polite. As always. “Good morning, Mr. Albarn.” She said, extending her hand. Damon barely looked at her properly. His handshake was quick, careless. “There’s no need for all that formality.” He replied, walking past her as if the office already belonged entirely to him. “Just do your job right.” That sentence was the trigger. Isabella felt something harden inside her. Keith would never speak to her like that. Keith respected her. And in the true hierarchy of that place, Keith Albarn was infinitely more important than the arrogant son who believed authority came packaged with his surname. From that moment on, Isabella stopped being gentle. She began to answer him in the same dry, direct tone, without softening her words. Damon noticed — and it seemed to irritate him. The following days were marked by tense meetings, heavy silences, and small power struggles. Neither of them backed down. Still… there were the looks. Isabella felt it when Damon watched her cross the room, when his eyes lingered longer than necessary on her waist, her legs, the way she leaned forward to pick up documents. And, despite refusing to admit it out loud, she also noticed how he became more interesting when he was irritated: his clenched jaw, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his dominant presence. Friday arrived heavy, like all the others in that cold London. By nightfall, the company was nearly empty. The distant sound of traffic blended with the hum of the fluorescent lights. Isabella held a thick folder of forms as she entered Damon’s office. “These are the revised contracts.” She said, placing them on his desk. Damon flipped through the papers quickly. His expression darkened. “This is all wrong.”