Chapter 4 - Behind the Iron Gates
The Moretti estate was an imposing fortress of limestone and dark slate, perched atop the cliffs overlooking Lake Michigan. Tall wrought-iron gates swung open silently as the car approached, revealing manicured gardens, centuries-old oaks, and private security patrols positioned at every corner.
Emma felt out of place the moment her worn sneakers hit the polished bluestone driveway. Inside, the grand foyer opened into vaulted ceilings with soaring archways and Renaissance tapestries. Yet, despite the staggering wealth, an oppressive air of sorrow and silence hung over the mansion.
Marcus led her upstairs through a maze of quiet corridors to a sunlit conservatory at the back of the house.
There, sitting near floor-to-ceiling glass windows that framed the stormy gray lake, was Isabella Moretti. She wore a soft lavender robe, looking even more delicate than she had the night before. But when she saw Emma, her frail face instantly lit up.
“Emma,” Isabella said, extending both hands. “Come in, my dear. Don’t stand by the doorway like a stranger.”
Emma took tentative steps forward and gently accepted the older woman’s hands. “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. How are you feeling?”
“Tired, but my heart is lighter having you here,” Isabella sighed, gesturing to the velvet armchair opposite her. “Sit with me. Tell me, did that wretched manager at the hotel fire you after I left?”
Emma swallowed, surprised by Isabella’s sharp intuition. “He hasn’t yet, ma'am. But he cut all my shifts for the rest of the month.”
Isabella scoffed, a flash of aristocratic defiance sparking in her eyes. “Fools, all of them. Flocking to cowards and punishing virtue.” The elderly woman leaned forward, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Emma, last night was no coincidence. I did not simply get lost in that ballroom. Someone moved my nurse away. Someone wanted me isolated, confused, and made to look senile before the board of directors.”
Emma’s breath hitched. “What? Who would do that to you?”
“People who want what Vincent has built,” Isabella said grimly. “People who know that my shares in Moretti Holdings are the only thing keeping them from staging a hostile takeover. They thought if I caused a scene, if I broke down publicly, they could file for legal conservatorship.”
Before Emma could respond, heavy footsteps echoed along the parquet floor.
Vincent Moretti stepped into the room. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His expression was sharp, watchful, and intensely focused on Emma.
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“Mother is telling the truth, Miss Carter,” Vincent said, stopping beside Isabella’s chair. “And by stepping in the way of Victoria Sterling, you inadvertently smashed a plot months in the making.”
***
