The black car that picked Rihanna up from the company's lobby didn't have a nameplate or license she could catch. The driver didn't speak much — only confirmed her name with a nod before opening the backseat door like he was trained for royalty, not employees.
As the vehicle glided through the Italian streets, Rihanna looked out the tinted window. Cobblestone lanes turned to gleaming avenues. The air shifted from warm café scents to sterile silence the closer they got to the more elite parts of the city.
She clutched the envelope in her hand — her apartment keycard, welcome package, and a strange, handwritten note:"Your comfort is our priority. Welcome to Aurelio International."Below it: — B.R.
Bianca Russo.
Her signature was like her — elegant and calculated.
The car finally stopped before a glass-and-marble building that could've passed for a hotel. Rihanna stepped out, suitcase in hand, her heels clicking against polished granite. The concierge already knew her name.
"Penthouse 9C, Miss Thompson. Elevator to the top. You'll find the fridge stocked and the welcome wine chilled."
She blinked. "Penthouse?"
"Yes, courtesy of Signora Russo."
Rihanna tried to protest, but the man was already walking away, like her questions were irrelevant.
The elevator rose fast. Too fast.
When the doors opened — she stopped breathing.
The apartment wasn't an apartment. It was a sanctuary dipped in gold. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the distant city skyline. The walls were eggshell white, artfully lit. Every piece of furniture was modern, expensive, untouched.
The floors gleamed.
There were fresh orchids in the corner.
A soft chime rang as she stepped in — and the lights dimmed automatically, adjusting to her presence. Her name even flashed briefly on the wall screen near the thermostat.
Welcome, Rihanna.
She dropped her suitcase slowly. The silence in the apartment was so complete, she could hear her own heartbeat.
The kitchen held imported wine, artisan cheese, and ingredients she couldn't pronounce. The bedroom had silk sheets. There were robes in the closet with tags still attached.
It was everything she'd ever imagined when she fantasized about escaping her small-town life.
And yet…
It felt like she was walking through a showroom instead of a home.
She sat on the edge of the king-size bed, staring at the skyline.
"Too perfect," she whispered to herself.
That night, as Rihanna curled into the softness of linen she didn't buy, she stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the sound of her brother's laughter, the smell of her mother's hair oil, her father's half-burnt toast.
They felt far away now.
Italy was supposed to be the start of something bright.
But for the first time…she wondered what price came with the shine.