receptionist, who smiles with that "I'm the most efficient person in the universe" smile. How she manages to always look impeccable, with a Colgate smile at eight in the morning, I'll never understand. "Hey, Isa! How was your weekend?" Clara's voice interrupts me as I barely start typing in my computer password. Of course she's already here. Clara appears with a glass of green juice that looks like it was made with fresh grass and the energy of someone who ran a marathon before coming to work. How is that possible? I haven't even had my second coffee yet. - Oh, the usual...

- I try to change the subject, already knowing where this is going. - The usual? Really? Because what I remember was you at the Ferraz party, laughing at everything and drinking like there was no tomorrow! And, by the way, where did you end up after that? - She leans over my desk with a curious look, waiting for details. The party. Yes, the damn party. I take a deep breath as I open my inbox and see an alarming number of emails piling up. Focus on the emails, Isabella. Clara won't settle for vague answers forever. - I left, that's all - I lie, praying that she buys the story. - "That's all," okay - she rolls her eyes, clearly not convinced. - So, when are you going to tell me who the guy was? The guy. I can't believe I'm stuck in this situation, trying to forget something that I'm not even sure happened the way I remember it. Clara is my best friend, but she doesn't need to know that the next morning I woke up with more questions than answers. And she definitely doesn't need to know that I'm starting to think that the "Dante" I met might not be who I thought. - What guy? - I try to play dumb, but the blush on my cheeks has probably already given me away. Clara smiles mischievously. - You're not fooling anyone, Isabella. But it's okay, I'll wait. Just please, next time, let me know before you disappear off the map, okay? - She punches me lightly in the arm and walks away, leaving me with a mixed feeling of relief and panic. Back at my desk, I try to focus on anything other than that night. Emails, meetings, reports... anything. Because, honestly, I'm not ready to face the possibility that I got involved with the wrong guy. And now, there's this little detail about a delay in my cycle that I'm pretending to ignore. CHAPTER 2: DISCONNECTED FLASHES You know that feeling when you try to remember a night and all that comes to mind are disconnected fragments? And, welcome to my life. The Ferraz party is still a blur in my head, like a poorly finished painting by an artist with no sense of perspective. But some parts are... well, almost clear. Enough for me to die of embarrassment every time I think about them. The party had everything to be a typical "Ferraz" event. A five-star event hall, a buffet with food that I couldn't even pronounce, and rich people showing off in red carpet-worthy outfits. I felt totally out of place, like an actress who walked into the wrong movie. "Isabella, stop hanging around there and come have some fun!" - Clara practically dragged me to the center of the party, laughing as she drank her second glass of sparkling wine. "Having fun" was the last thing I wanted. My plan was quite simple: socialize a little, drink as little as necessary so as not to seem antisocial, and get out of there as quickly as possible. That was, of course, until I accepted the first glass of wine. And after the first, the second, and the third... Everything started to get a little blurry from then on. I remember Clara introducing me to someone - a tall guy with an easy smile, the typical heir to a fortune who had never had to work a day in his life. In my alcohol-fogged mind, I immediately thought: Oh, of course, this is Dante Ferraz. Of course. - Nice to meet you, Isabella - I remember saying, trying to sound confident while my head was already starting to swim slightly. He laughed, that kind of easygoing laugh that makes any woman think, "Yeah, this guy knows he's cute." We talked about something completely trivial, me laughing at jokes that probably weren't even funny, until at some point - and I don't know how - we were dancing. Yes, dancing. I hate dancing in public. It must have been the wine, it had to be. And then, more lashes. He pulled me to the outside area of ​​the ballroom, where the music could still be heard in the background, but the atmosphere was calmer. I remember being dizzy, but not just from the wine. I was enchanted by the way he spoke to me, a natural charm that I hadn't expected. "So... are you always like this?" I asked, not sure what he meant by "like this." "Like what?" He smiled, leaning closer. I don't know what came over me, but at that moment I laughed. And then, he kissed me. The kiss. Yes, I remember that part well. It was like in the movies, with flashing lights in the background, the kind of scene where even the stars seem to conspire to make the moment perfect. Except, of course, in my case, I tripped right after, dropping my wine glass on the floor. Total elegance. After that, more disconnected flashes. A taxi, the two of us laughing like we were old friends, and then... the hotel room. Then everything becomes a blur. "Oh, Isabella... what did you go do?" I mutter to myself, as I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I'm at work, but my mind is still stuck on that night. The night when everything started to go wrong. The problem is that, in my alcohol-addled mind, I was sure that I had spent the night with Dante Ferraz. But now, after investigating a little more, some details don't add up. The way he behaved, the fact that he didn't seem so... Dante. I mean, I even looked up pictures of him online-and let's face it, Dante Ferraz is impossible to ignore. If you type in "rich playboy," his face pops up instantly, and for good reason. He's ridiculously handsome. Like, magazine cover, billboard in the middle of a beautiful avenue. But when I look at his pictures now, something bothers me. I can't put the pieces together. I vaguely remember the guy's face at the party, but in my head everything is kind of blurry, like a badly done impressionist painting. What comes to mind is that he was just as handsome as Dante... but was it really him? "Did he dye his hair for the party?" I whisper to myself, as I scroll through Dante's Instagram photo for the tenth time. Dark hair, impeccable hairstyle, confident gaze. Yes, the guy I was with at the party had slightly lighter hair, but nothing a quick dye job can't fix, right? But... would Dante, the spoiled heir who only cares about his own appearance, go to the trouble of changing his hair for a family event? It doesn't make sense. And there's another thing. The Dante at the party-if that was him-seemed... different. He didn't speak with that arrogant tone that everyone describes. In fact, he was kind. Playful, even. He laughed at my jokes, at my clumsy dancing (ok, maybe he laughed at me and not at me, but details...). He didn't seem like the kind of guy who would look down on everyone around him just because he had a bank account bigger than my life expectancy. And now that I think about it, there's something else: his eyes. Dante has brown eyes, right? But at the party, I could have sworn his eyes were... lighter. Blue, maybe? But I was