Her face glared in the sunlight shimmer as she peered through the sunset. The magic of the setting sun synchronized ridiculously well with the climaxing beauty of the primadonna.
Pride emanated from her long wavy hair, highlighting its auburn gloss, scaring away the lurking envious beauties.
One step at a time, the ginger heroine got out of the lengthy limousine, guards rallying around her back, young virgin nuns parading her, bearing blank expressionless faces.
Her eyes turned light green when they ran across the butterfly cresting on the limo and straight at the stupendous mansion of the reluctant Sicilian.
Her high cheek bones elevated the more when she grinned. The harshness of the weather tormented her pale skin.
People were compelled to stare at Isadora whenever she walked into a place and so, the primadonna was already getting accustomed to the gaping Italian eyes.
”Im not of this world! ” her pale skin, the complexion of snow, bragged. ”Bow to me! ” Those green catlike eyes that evoked jealousy as a wizard conjures magic lisped, one could hear their stinging cold whispers.
She licked her rose red lips, the cherry flavour of her priceless lipstick fresh on her tongue. The primadonnas catwalk was graceful, full of confidence yet encumbered with sobriety.
The helm of her flowing red gown swept through the gardens like a brides. Her curviness absolutely defined in the splendor of her intricate velvet tubed gown.
That waist of hers, so slender, yet bearing a reputation twice its size, wriggled in some seductive way when she moved.
She was a complex woman, as beautiful as treacherous, as charming as dangerous with ravishing smiles that could persuade any man…or woman.
Her eyes met the dull gray of his. He limped absurdly, that gold walking stick of his was of no use, still he would glory in it, whether self righteously, Isadora wondered, or to flaunt his magnifying pride.
Soon, they met. The Don. A massive wall of a man, towering well above six feet. Age was too slow to catch up with this fella.
His broad shoulders, rumpled the pits of his tuxedo, his belt was scrabbled clumsily around his waist. His hair was receding, a great jet black, fading into gray strands of wisdom by the sides.
His mustache was turning silver and his beard was neatly trimmed beneath the sensual dimple of his butt shaped chin. ”A fine old man ” dressed in luxurious new clothes.
Isadora frowned at her blurry reflection on the gloss of the Dons Gucci shoes. A host of fury eyed men swarmed around him, and soon engulfed her.
The whole garden was covered with people and butterflies. Isadora felt her belly churn when the ageing Don fiddled with and smelled a rose flower so passionately.
She took a quick glance at the sigil of house Montovani, the blue rose;
it made her feel nervous.
But Isadora would always conceal her truest feelings, ”for even if Jack was feeble, his adversaries must not learn of his weakness or they may use it to their advantage, ” her fathers words rang somewhere deep inside her cerebrum.
The primadonna sighed deeply and clasped both hands together, her white gloves, stretching to her elbows, rubbed against each other.
”Don Di Mercurio Montovani, ” the primadonna muttered carefully. ”Isadora Cavendish…daughter of Devonshire, ” the Don croaked, and then followed an awkward lengthy stare by both parties, reminiscing, drowning in seas of thoughts and mysteries.
He remembered her fathers dear promise. He remembered the onyx eyes of his fine young boy.
He remembered their love, and he remembered the betrothal. ”Your son shall have my daughter and both of u
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