New York, 1996 The storm had begun somewhere over the Atlantic, but it only gained a name and real weight when the pilot announced, in a voice far too neutral for bad news, that the flight back to London had been canceled. Isabella Iero closed her eyes for a second, feeling the exhaustion spread through her body like a slow fever. She had spent the entire day crossing New York for interviews that would yield, at best, two tight columns in the Sunday paper. Now, all she wanted was to disappear into a clean bed and forget she existed. The airline put her up in a luxury hotel near Central Park, one of those places that smell of polished wood and expensive silence. Isabella could have called someone, gone out for a drink, walked through the rain-soaked streets of the city that never sleeps. But there were days—and she felt this with strange clarity that night—when the outside world seemed to demand more energy than she had. She chose to go upstairs, alone, with her small suitcase and a head full of unfinished sentences. Room 312 was far too large for one person. The yellowish lights cast soft shadows on the walls, and the distant sound of rain hitting the windows beat like a stubborn heart. Isabella took a quick shower, slipped into the white robe hanging behind the door, and collapsed onto the bed, opening her notebook over her legs. She was a journalist, and even exhausted, deadlines still existed. She typed slowly, focused, her hair still damp against her back, when she heard a sound she should not have heard. The lock turning. For a second, her brain refused to process it. In the next, Isabella sat up abruptly in bed, her heart racing. The door opened far too naturally, as if it were expected, and a man stepped inside carrying a suitcase and a rain-soaked coat. They stared at each other. The man froze, eyes wide.