Chapter 1 - The Office
The walk to Sofia’s bedroom felt like a marathon. Every step sent a fresh wave of agony up my calf, but I didn't dare falter. Not with Luca watching from below, and definitely not with Isabella's cold eyes tracking my every move.
I gently laid Sofia onto her princess bed, pulling the lavender quilt up to her chin. She let out a soft sigh, her tiny fingers finally uncurling from my uniform. I stood there for a moment in the dim light of the nightlight, catching my breath. My left ankle throbbed with a dull, relentless rhythm.
I had to go down there. To his office.
The hallway was a stretch of shadowy silence. The Moretti estate was always immaculate, always quiet, but tonight the silence felt heavy. Suffocating. I limped down the corridor, leaning heavily against the paneled walls to keep weight off my injured foot.
His office doors were solid mahogany, standing slightly ajar. Warm golden light spilled out onto the Persian runner. I took a deep breath, smoothing down my apron, and pushed the door open.
Luca stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the rain. He had a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, though he wasn't drinking it. The room smelled of cedar, expensive leather, and the faint, sharp scent of impending rain.
"Close the door."
His voice was a low rumble. It didn't bounce off the walls; it seemed to sink right into them.
I pushed the heavy door shut until it clicked.
"Sit." He didn't turn around. He just pointed a single finger toward one of the leather wingback chairs facing his massive oak desk.
"I prefer to stand, Mr. Moretti," I lied. Standing was torture, but sitting felt like surrendering to an interrogation.
He finally turned. His dark eyes locked onto mine, stripping away every defense I thought I had built. He set the glass down on his desk with a quiet, definitive clink.
"Emma," he said, the sound of my name on his lips sending a strange, unexpected shiver down my spine. "You are trembling. Your face is pale. You are keeping all your weight on your right leg. Sit down before you fall down."
I didn't argue again. I limped over to the chair and sank into the soft leather. Relief washed over my leg, making me close my eyes for a fraction of a second.
When I opened them, Luca was kneeling right in front of me.
My breath caught in my throat. The billionaire. The ruthless CEO of Moretti Holdings. Kneeling on his own office floor, reaching out to gently lift my left foot.
"Mr. Moretti, what are you—"
"Quiet."
His hands were large, warm, and surprisingly gentle. He unlaced my plain black work shoe and carefully slid it off. Even through my sock, I could see the angry purple and blue swelling wrapping around the joint.
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He traced the edge of the swelling with his thumb, barely ghosting over the fabric. The touch sent a shockwave of heat straight to my chest.
"This is not from slipping," he stated. It wasn't a question. It was a cold, hard fact. "I have seen men walk away from car crashes with less swelling than this. Tell me exactly what happened, Emma. And do not protect her."
My hands gripped the armrests. "I’m just the nanny, sir. Miss Isabella is going to be your wife. I don't want to cause trouble."
"Isabella is my fiancée," he corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You are the woman who makes my daughter smile again. The woman who carried my sleeping child down a staircase on a torn ligament just so she wouldn't wake up afraid. Do not underestimate your value in this house."
He looked up at me. His eyes were fierce. Protective.
"Tell me."
The dam broke. I couldn't hold it back anymore. "Sofia asked me to sit next to her at dinner. It made Miss Isabella angry. Later, when I was upstairs folding blankets, she cornered me. She told me I was just hired help. When I tried to walk away, she grabbed my arm and shoved me. I tripped backward and twisted it."
Silence stretched between us. It wasn't the quiet of an empty room; it was the terrifying stillness before a hurricane.
Luca gently placed my foot on the plush rug. He stood up slowly, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. He didn't yell. He didn't throw his glass.
He walked over to his desk and picked up his phone. He pressed a single button.
"Marco," Luca said, speaking to his head of security. "Go to the east wing. Pack Miss Romano’s bags. All of them. Have her car brought to the front door."
A pause.
"Yes, right now. If she refuses to leave, escort her off the property. She no longer has access to this house, my daughter, or my staff."
He hung up.
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Mr. Moretti… you’re throwing her out? Tonight?"
Luca walked back toward me. The coldness in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something entirely different. Something raw and intense.
"No one," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "lays a hand on what is mine."
The words hung in the air. What is mine. Did he mean his staff? His daughter? Or did he mean me?
Before I could ask, he bent down and scooped me up into his arms.
May you like
"What are you doing?" I gasped, instinctively wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders.
"Taking you to the guest suite," he murmured, his face inches from mine. "You're done working for the night, Emma. In fact, your job description is about to change entirely."
