The Murano family estate in Milan had always been the same—grand, cold, and far too quiet for a place that hosted so many people. Its marble floors carried the weight of generations, and its chandeliers shone like relics of a once-proud dynasty that now survived on legacy and appearances. Outside, the trimmed gardens glistened in the afternoon light, but inside, the atmosphere was as sharp as a knife disguised in silk.
Isabella Murano adjusted the strap of her cream-colored dress as she descended the staircase. She looked every inch the refined young woman the tabloids adored—the golden-haired, amber-eyed prodigy of the Murano line, the self-made singer and actress who had built her own entertainment agency at twenty-five. Her skin, the shade of sun-kissed bronze from her Colombian mother, glowed against the muted gold of her attire. Her hair, thick and dark with caramel undertones, fell in waves that brushed her back. She looked like she belonged in a painting. But despite her beauty, her expression carried something that the others at the table lacked—depth.
She hated these gatherings. Every time, it was the same: a performance. Her stepmother's perfect smiles, her father's indifference, her half-siblings' veiled remarks, and the constant buzz of envy hidden beneath laughter and wine. Only her grandparents made the ordeal bearable—her grandfather, Ettore Murano, whose weathered hands still carried the strength of his youth, and her grandmother, Sofia, who somehow managed to make warmth feel like rebellion in this cold house.
When Isabella entered the dining room, every head turned—just as it always did. The men looked too long, the women tried not to. Her stepmother, Francesca, was the first to speak. "Ah, Isabella," she said with feigned sweetness, her lips curving into a smile that never reached her eyes. "We were wondering when our little star would join us. Busy saving the entertainment world again?"
"Something like that," Isabella replied softly, offering a polite nod before taking her seat beside her grandmother.
Francesca's eyes flickered, the false charm never faltering. "You must be exhausted. Running an agency, singing, acting… And yet no time to find a husband?" She chuckled lightly, the sound brittle. "You know, you're twenty-five now. The youngest in the family, yet all your brothers and sisters have settled down."
A faint murmur went around the table. Isabella's siblings smirked; their spouses hid grins behind their glasses. Isabella, however, did not rise to the bait. She simply smiled, her voice calm but distant. "I've been busy building something that lasts longer than a dinner invitation."
Her grandfather laughed, a deep, warm sound that silenced the table. "Ah, that's my girl," Ettore said proudly, tapping the table with his spoon. "She's got fire, just like her grandmother. Francesca, leave her be. The right man will come when he's earned the right to stand next to her."
Francesca's smile stiffened. Isabella caught her father's fleeting glance—disinterested, detached, as if none of this concerned him. He was a man who had long chosen silence over love. The rest of the family followed his example.
The meal began in the usual fashion—silver cutlery, muted conversation, and the faint tension of old grudges hiding beneath pleasantries. Isabella ate little, her mind far away. Despite the laughter and chatter, she couldn't shake the brief image that had flickered in her mind earlier that day—the boy she'd bumped into at that quiet restaurant a week ago.
He had been different. Not because of his looks, though they were arresting in their own right—dark hair, sharp eyes, that quiet intensity. It was his presence. The confidence that didn't need to be loud. The way he had said nothing and yet made the air shift around him. She hadn't been able to forget him. Even now, as her stepmother droned on about family expectations, his image lingered in the corner of her mind like a whisper she couldn't place.
"Isabella," her grandmother said gently, breaking her reverie. "You seem far away, dear."
"I'm here, nonna," Isabella said softly, offering a smile that reached her eyes this time.
The warmth between them didn't go unnoticed. Ettore looked at his granddaughter with pride—his only grandchild who still carried the spark he once had. "You know," he said suddenly, setting his glass down, "I've been thinking of moving to Lombardy. The countryside near my hometown. It's peaceful there. Milan has grown too loud for these old bones."
That drew murmurs from around the table. "Lombardy?" one of the uncles said, half-laughing. "What would you do there, papa? You'd get bored in a week."
Ettore smiled knowingly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'd finally get to rest. There's a certain joy in returning to where it all began. Besides," his eyes twinkled, "their football team's been doing wonders lately. Promoted from Serie D to Serie C! The spirit of Lombardy lives again."
Sofia chuckled softly. "Ah, so that's the real reason. You want to move closer to your new heroes."
He grinned. "You remember how I used to say I'd be their striker one day?" His laugh echoed across the room, and even Isabella couldn't help but smile. "Maybe I'll just be their biggest fan now. The boys are making the whole region proud."
Her grandmother, in a playful tone, added, "Speaking of football, there's a new show airing tonight. Rising Boot, I think it's called. It features one of the players from that same Lombardy team you're always praising. You'll like it."
Ettore's eyes lit up. "Really? Now that, I must see. Thank you for reminding me, Sofia." He turned to Isabella. "Will you watch with me, cara? You haven't watched football with your old nonno in so long."
She smiled softly. "Of course, nonno. I'd love to."
Her cousins and half-siblings immediately joined in, voices coated in false eagerness. "We'll watch too!" one of them said quickly. "We wouldn't miss it."
Ettore raised an eyebrow, amused. He wasn't fooled, but he didn't mind. Let them pretend.
When evening came, the family gathered in the grand living room, the glow of the massive television reflecting off polished marble. Ettore took his favorite chair, a blanket over his legs, while Isabella sat beside him, her grandmother on the other side. The rest of the family spread across the couches, chattering until the opening theme began.
Rising Boot. The title glimmered on the screen, followed by sweeping shots of young Italian talents introducing themselves, one after another. The family watched with mild interest, Ettore commenting now and then on certain players.
But then, the screen shifted—and the room grew quieter.
The camera framed a young man standing confidently under studio lights, the crowd's faint cheers echoing behind him. His black hair fell neatly over sharp features, his eyes calm yet magnetic. The interviewer's voice carried over the soft hum of the background.
"And next, we have one of the most talked-about players in Italy's lower divisions—Jaeven Han of Virtus Lombardia."
The name lingered in the air. Isabella's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
The same eyes.
The same quiet composure.
The same boy from that restaurant.
Her heart gave a subtle, unexpected tremor.
The interviewer continued, "Jaeven, your rise this season has been incredible. Fourteen goals, nine assists, countless highlight plays—people are calling it The Han Effect. How do you feel about that?"
Jaeven's expression remained composed, a faint smile playing at his lips. "I don't really think about names or effects," he said, his tone steady and low. "I just play football the way I love it. If it inspires people, I'm grateful."
"That humility at such a young age!" the host said with excitement. "And rumor has it, you've created moves we've never seen before. How do you even come up with them?"
"I just… listen," he said after a pause. "To the game. Sometimes, it tells you what to do next."
The room was silent. Even Francesca, who had spent most of the night checking her phone, seemed fixated. Ettore leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Magnifico," he muttered. "That's the boy I was talking about! From Virtus Lombardia!"
Francesca's eldest daughter whispered, "He's… handsome."
Her husband shot her a look.
Across the room, Isabella's cousins whispered to each other, their eyes gleaming with open admiration.
"He's so young," one of them murmured. "And already that confident…"
"He's beautiful," another whispered, before her husband coughed pointedly.
Isabella didn't speak. Her gaze stayed on the screen, her thoughts a storm she didn't show.
She watched as the show continued—highlights of Jaeven's matches, fans chanting his name, slow-motion replays of his impossible plays. The commentary spoke of his rise from anonymity, his self-discipline, his refusal to transfer despite multiple offers. Every word only deepened the intrigue.
And when the episode neared its end, the screen returned to his face—serious, calm, filled with that strange sense of inevitability.
Something inside Isabella shifted. A quiet recognition, though she couldn't name it.
Her grandfather chuckled beside her. "That boy's going places," he said with conviction. "Mark my words, he's the future of Italian football."
Isabella's lips parted just slightly, the faintest smile curving them. She didn't look away from the screen.
"So that's who you are," she whispered.