The Dance of the Scarred King

Part 2: The Secret Behind the Accident

The moment Leandro whispered those words, the warmth disappeared from his eyes.

I continued dancing, although my thoughts were racing.

“Who was she?” I asked quietly.

“Isabella Romano. My fiancée.”

“What happened to her?”

Leandro looked toward the silver-haired man standing near the entrance.

“Four years ago, our car went off a bridge during a snowstorm. I survived. Isabella disappeared. The authorities eventually declared her dead, but they never found her body.”

He paused.

“She was three months pregnant.”

My heart tightened.

“I’m sorry, Leandro.”

He looked down at me.

“Everyone has told me that. But nobody has ever helped me find out what happened.”

Before I could respond, the music ended.

Applause filled the ballroom, but Leandro didn’t release my hand immediately.

Instead, he leaned closer.

“The man near the entrance is Richard Voss. He was my father’s closest business partner. He also controlled the investigation into Isabella’s disappearance.”

I glanced toward the entrance.

Richard was watching us.

“Why would he pay someone to arrange our seating?”

“Because he knows something about you.”

My stomach dropped.

“About me? I don’t even know you.”

“That’s precisely what worries me.”

Before I could ask another question, Richard approached.

“Leandro. May I have a word?”

Leandro’s expression turned cold.

“Whatever you have to say, say it here.”

Richard smiled politely.

His silver hair was perfectly styled, and his black tuxedo looked considerably more expensive than mine.

“I see you’ve finally found someone willing to dance with you.”

His eyes moved toward my dress.

“Miss Donnelly, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.”

Leandro stepped slightly in front of me.

“Watch your words, Richard.”

Richard chuckled.

“Still protective, I see.”

Then he looked directly at me.

“Enjoy your evening, Miss Donnelly. You may discover that knowing Leandro Vitali isn’t quite the blessing you imagine.”

He walked away.

I watched him disappear into the crowd.

“Who is he?” I whispered.

“Someone who should have been buried with the secrets he kept.”

A few minutes later, Leandro’s security chief approached.

“Sir, we have a problem.”

Leandro turned.

“What?”

“Someone entered your private office upstairs. The security cameras were disabled for eleven minutes.”

Leandro’s expression changed immediately.

“What was taken?”

The guard hesitated.

“Nothing, sir. But someone left something behind.”

He handed Leandro a small white envelope.

There was no name on it.

Leandro opened it.

Inside was an old photograph.

It showed a young woman standing beside a black Mercedes.

Isabella.

On the back, someone had written:

SHE DIDN’T DIE. AND NEITHER DID HER CHILD.

Leandro’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

For the first time that evening, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

“Clare,” he said quietly.

“Yes?”

“Do you recognize this handwriting?”

I studied the message.

My blood ran cold.

I recognized it.

It was the same handwriting that had appeared on a letter my late father had kept locked inside his desk.

A letter he had told me never to show anyone.

I looked at Leandro.

“I think I know who wrote this.”

His voice became dangerously quiet.

“Who?”

I swallowed.

“My father.”