He's here already?

He's here already?

~ KAIA'S POV ~

What!!!

He’s here already?

My chest tightens the moment the nurse whispers his arrival, and my pulse begins to drum against my ribs. I can almost hear it echo inside my ears. Vittorio.

“Remember, be calm and classy,” I whisper to myself, clutching the edge of the sink as though the porcelain could anchor me. My reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back, pale and unsettled. Calm and classy. That’s what I need to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I turn on the tap and bend forward, letting the water run through my hair. The sound of the water rushing soothes me for a moment, almost drowning out the wild thoughts racing inside my head. I scrub carefully with my good hand.

Honestly, I feel filthy. Not just physically, though the stale smell of antiseptic, hospital sheets, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingers in my senses, but emotionally. The memory of that day clings to me like smoke, like invisible grime stuck to my skin. Even though my arm is bandaged neatly, even though there is no visible blood on me now, I can still feel it, its stink, its weight, its shadow, glued to me.

I have to be careful with my left arm. Every movement threatens to tug at the wound beneath the sling. Nurse Theresa had fussed over it earlier, adjusting and re-adjusting, her voice a mixture of strictness and concern. She said the sling was waterproof, but I didn’t dare trust it. One wrong slip and I’d undo her work. I couldn’t risk that not today, not when Vittorio is waiting.

So I work slowly. I let the water cascade down, guiding my hair under the flow with only my right hand, fingers threading carefully, making sure the soap rinses out properly. It’s clumsy, awkward, and slower than I want it to be, but determination fuels me.

Once done, I shut the tap with a trembling breath and grab the towel. Dropping it over my damp hair, I blot softly, dabbing instead of rubbing. The fresh cotton smells faintly of lavender detergent. I close my eyes for a second, pressing the towel against my head, breathing in the clean scent as if it can purify me from everything else.

I take the blow dryer in my good hand and begin the slow process. Each pass of warm air feels like an exhale against my skin, coaxing strands back into order. My movements are practiced, efficient, though one-handed. It feels like a small victory—mastering the art of appearing put together despite the circumstances.

When my hair is finally dry, I reach for the dress Theresa had brought earlier. She told me plainly that the one I wore during the incident couldn’t be salvaged; even after dry cleaning, the blood had clung stubbornly. I remember staring at it for a second too long before she whisked it away. Maybe it’s for the best. Let it disappear with that day.

The new dress is simple but elegant, dark enough to flatter my skin tone, soft enough to make me feel feminine despite the bandage. Pulling it on with one arm feels like a challenge, but I rise to it. With careful maneuvers, sliding, shifting, tugging with my right hand, balancing awkwardly. I wear it like a professional. Like I’ve done this countless times before.

And when it finally settles against me, I stand straighter.

I walk toward the mirror slowly, each step carrying a mixture of dread and determination. The woman staring back at me looks different from the one who first arrived at this hospital. Paler, yes. Worn down, yes. But also sharpened somehow—eyes brighter with defiance, lips pressed into a steady line that speaks of quiet resolve.

I take in the sight of myself fully, searching for cracks, for weaknesses, for signs that my mask might slip the moment I face him. My fingers curl at my sides.

“Go do your thing,” I whisper in my mind, the words more like a vow than encouragement.

This is not just about meeting Vittorio. It’s about control. About making sure he doesn’t see me rattled, doesn’t sense how he unsettles me from the inside out. I cannot afford to look desperate, cannot afford to look weak. If I crumble, I lose. And I cannot lose, not now, not when everything feels like it’s just beginning to align.

I draw in one last deep breath, steadying myself. The air tastes faintly sterile, like disinfectant, but beneath it, I imagine the scent of freedom, the scent of opportunity. Vittorio is here. He is waiting. And whatever game has begun between us, I need to step onto that stage with grace.

My heart hammers. My pulse races. But my lips curve into the faintest trace of a smile, the kind that can disarm, the kind that can shield.

“Be calm. Be classy.”

And with that, I prepare to walk out.