Olivia's P.O.V.

Silence was all I could hear as it grew louder in my head and darkness was all I could see as I kept my eyes shut, dreading what would happen in the next few moments. Silence; it stood as a reminder of my loneliness and seclusion.

The conversations between my parents were no longer present, the sound of footsteps scurrying across the floors as they rushed to get ready for work, did not exist anymore, and the enticing aroma of fresh coffee ceased to linger in the air every morning.

These small memories were slowly slipping away from my recollections as my parents had passed away thirteen years ago. I was ten at the time when the fatal car accident took place and was left to be taken care of by my grandparents, but they inevitably fell ill to old age, eight years later.

As anticipated, a loud jolting noise caused adrenaline to rush through my body and my stream of consciousness halted as my eyes shot open. I turned my head towards the sound and stared at the perpetrator. The dreadful alarm clock.

I sat up against the headboard of my bed and looked towards the window, watching the dust particles float aimlessly around my room in the rays of sunlight. The sound of motorists, in the bustling city of Rome, filled my ears and encouraged me to drag myself out of bed, now beginning a productive day.

After the death of my grandparents, I was overcome with despair and agony. The memories that I had of my family became too overbearing and I could no longer live in a house that I used to call a home. I was in pain and felt hopeless, but I was afraid to let the void inside of me grow darker. I was daunted by the looming fear of falling into a state of despondency.

I wanted to learn how to love and take care of myself again, so I made the decision to move out of The States and start a new part of my life in Italy.

With the money that I inherited and saved, I decided to complete my studies at The American University of Rome and receive a degree in art history. After graduating, I applied for a job at Il Museo Massimo and later successfully completed the interview process. Today marks the start of my career as an exhibition curator.

As my footsteps tread lightly across the cold beige tiles I came to a stop when I reached my dust-covered mirror. When I looked up at my reflection all I could see was a younger version of my mother. I had her light caramel brown hair that curled at the ends, near the back of my waist, and her warm olive complexion.

My eyes began to brim with tears as memories of her sweet melodic voice and smile that reached the corner of her deep blue eyes came flooding back. This was one feature that I did not share with my mother, instead, I had my father's warm and comforting light brown eyes.

I quickly blinked away my tears, refusing to let a drop fall down my cheek, and hurried to the bathroom to freshen up. I slid on a black pencil skirt then proceeded to tuck in a white button-up blouse before clasping a necklace around my neck, hoping that this simple attempt of looking presentable was adequate for my first day.

My grandmother had gifted me her golden necklace, with a heart shaped locket, that had my initials, A.A, engraved into it and enclosed the pictures of my parents from when they were infants. Very rarely do I forget to wear this necklace, it was all I had left of my family, I wanted to keep it close to my heart.

After giving my reflection one last look of approval I grabbed my belongings and rushed towards the door of my apartment. My heels met the stone covered ground as I found myself walking towards the streets of Rome. Sampietrini; the name of the type of pavement found throughout Italy, the stones, dating back to the fifteenth century, lined the streets, giving people a chance to walk through history.

My studies in art history have taught me to value and recognize the fine art and intricate details that were displayed throughout Rome. The city was alive, thriving, and vivacious; it was how I wanted to feel again.

My strides came to a stop as I reached the front entrance and pulled open the door of the museum, Il Museo Massimo.

"The great Massimo," I said to myself under my breath. The museum was beautifully constructed by an esteemed architect, under the name of Massimo. I wonder if he truly lived up to the meaning of his name, the greatest.

"Buongiorno," the receptionist greeted me, pulling myself out of my thoughts.

"Ciao, I am Olivia Fredinard, the new trainee who will be working as the curator."

I never gave much thought to my name, given that both of my parents were from Greece, my surname is of Greek origin, meaning eagle. Nothing glorious compared to the architect.

"Ah, sì, Ms. Fredinard you will have a briefing with Mr. Smith in twenty minutes." She stood from her desk and I soon followed her footsteps as she walked across the hall towards the meeting room.

Smith, I repeated in my head. Sounds like a name you would find on a label of pasta.

1

The sound of my heels tapping against the dark gray floor bounced off the beige stone walls and echoed throughout the halls. The natural sunlight radiating through the windows had casted shadows upon the meticulously carved marble sculptures. Feeling accomplished with my studies at the university, I began to recognize some of the statues as we continued our walk.

A replica of Lancellotti Discobulus, constructed during the Classical period, The Statue of Ludovisi Hermes, and the sculpture I admired most, the Girl from Anzio. My observations were interrupted as the receptionist turned the handle of the door to the meeting room, inviting me to step inside.

"Thank you..." I said, and glanced at her name badge, "...Mrs. Jackson."

"Prego!" she said with a slight smile and then quietly left the room (You're welcome).

Silence, it caught up with me again but this time I was not alone.

I turned around to face the room and I was met with deep blue eyes studying me carefully. The attentive stare belonged to a man who sat tall and proper, and his hair gleamed of golden blond as it was caught in the sunlight. He was a formal man, with crossed hands placed onto the table in front of him as his burly arms rest along the lengths of his chair.

I quickly broke eye contact, careful to not stare for a few seconds longer and walked towards the large glass table in the center of the room. I fleetingly examined the seating arrangement at the table and felt anxious not knowing where to sit as I felt his gaze following my every move.

I absolutely will not sit directly in front of him, I cannot stand the watchful look he is giving me, I thought to myself while I stood here like a complete idiot, having trouble with such a straightforward task. Why must he keep staring?

I promptly pulled out my journal and pen as I chose to sit diagonally from the observant man. Mimicking his posture, I placed my hands onto the table, straightened my back and held my head high, trying to uncover the confidence within myself.

You are a handsome man, I secretly admitted, almost feeling a sense of nervousness in his presence, but I sighed, shaking the thoughts from my head as I looked up to share a kind smile.

"Hello, I'm Olivia," I said and extended out my hand for him to shake, internally cringing and detesting myself for the slightly high pitched voice that escaped from my lips.

He looked at me with a neutral expression, not a change of emotion in his face while he examined me carefully. My hand still dangled awkwardly within the tense air between us, but only his eyes had moved, trailing down to my pending offer.

What if he doesn't understand English? I frantically questioned my attempts of being cordial with this person. Well, we are in Italy, idiota. My mind kept wondering about what to do next as I mentally face-palmed myself.

I immediately gathered what was left of my poise and tried to recall the basic Italian that I learned while studying in the university.

"Erm, ciao, mi chiamo Ara-"

He suddenly caught me by surprise as he leaned over the table and shook my hand with a firm grip.

"I understood you the first time, Ms. Olivia," he said with a smirk.

The words rolled off his tongue in perfect English, but with a slight accent that I could not seem to identify. I looked at him, my mouth agape with curiosity as a smile started to form on my lips while I shook my head.

"Then why didn't you-" I was soon interrupted when the door of the meeting room opened. An old man with a podgy body, which I am assuming is Mr. Smith, walked through the entrance wearing a beige, Italian milled wool suit and tie.

Very classy and expensive taste.

I had given him my full attention, but Mr. Smith seemed to disregard my presence as he directly looked at the blue eyed man who sat across from me.

"Patrick-" Mr. Smith spoke out in a raspy Italian accent before he was suddenly cut off.

"Yes, Patrick Van," he abruptly stood up from his chair and walked towards Mr. Smith to shake his hand, and without hesitance at that, as I stared and questioned his swift behavior. I furrowed my eyebrows in wonder, but soon dismissed the curiosity when Mr. Smith finally turned his attention towards me.

"Ms. Fredinard, it is a pleasure to have you working for us. I am looking forward to seeing you use your skills and knowledge to help better this museum."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Smith." I shook his hand, and nodded with respect.

"I will be showing you and Patrick around the establishment as you two are new here. Patrick will not be working along your side, but he will be here to manage the security details."

I turned to Patrick and he shared a gentle smile as we followed Mr. Smith outside. While we walked throughout the gallery my eyes swept across the numerous pieces of art, but landed on a man who stood before the marble statues.

He examined the works of art scrupulously; I watched as his eyes trailed over every curve, crevice, and detail that the sculptures had to offer. The voice of Mr. Smith, introducing the pieces of art, drowned out of my head as this peculiar man now captured my attention.

He did not seem like he worked at the museum as he did not wear a name badge like the other employees, and the doors have yet to open to the public, it was not possible for him to be a guest. Who is he?

One would believe that a visitor of an art gallery will enter with a sparkling wonder within their eyes, but this man circled around a statue with a stare so stern and solemn. My gaze trailed from the sculpture to his presence, his hands were hidden in the pockets of his pants and his black shirt hugged his well built arms and broad-shoulders generously.

With an attraction towards his face, I observed a faint layer of stubble that lined his strong and sharp jawline, and his wavy short hair glimmered a dark chocolate color under the fluorescent lights. His eyes were the darkest shade of brown, a shade to be defined as a warm tone on the color spectrum, yet his glare was cold and bitter.

His aura was intimidating, his tall stature - domineering, and his face was as lifeless as the statues before him.

But he's alluring, I thought to myself.

As if he could sense my intrigue, he glared towards my direction and his eyes pierced my light brown ones, making me a prisoner under his gaze. I felt my cheeks redden and bit my bottom lip as I quickly turned the other direction, not wanting to investigate further into his mystery, and returned to following Mr. Smith and Patrick on this excruciatingly long tour.