Chapter 2 - The Midnight Interrogation
The walk to Sofia’s bedroom felt like navigating a minefield.
Every press of my swollen left foot against the plush Persian runner sent sharp, sickening needles of heat radiating straight up into my shin. Yet, I held the little girl tighter, burying my nose into the soft scent of her lavender shampoo, willing my breathing to remain steady. Children were mirrors; if I panicked, Sofia would wake, and the fragile peace of the midnight hour would shatter.
I eased the mahogany door open with my elbow. The nursery was bathed in the warm, honeyed glow of a porcelain rabbit nightlight. Shadows danced lazily across shelves filled with imported storybooks, hand-painted wooden carousels, and plush animals Sofia rarely touched. For all the luxury Luca Moretti provided his only child, the room often felt hauntingly lonely.
I leaned over the custom canopy crib, gently transferring Sofia onto her mattress. She gave a small, drowsy whimper, her fingers clutching the lapel of my navy nanny smock.
"Shh, sweet girl," I whispered, kneeling despite the vicious throb in my joint. I brushed a stray dark curl from her forehead. "You’re safe. Emma’s right here."
She relaxed, her chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace. I pulled the embroidered duvet over her small shoulders, kissed her forehead, and forced myself back to my feet. A choked gasp escaped my lips as weight returned to my ankle.
I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner: *12:14 AM.*
Luca was waiting.
Luca Moretti did not wait for anyone. He was the head of Moretti Global Logistics, a man whose signature decided the fates of shipping fleets across three continents. In the two months I had lived under his roof, I had learned three immutable laws: he expected absolute silence before sunrise, he tolerated no excuses, and he saw everything.
Stepping into the corridor, the silence of the mansion closed in on me like deep water. As I approached the east wing where his private study lay, the scent of aged cedar, leather, and expensive bourbon cut through the air.
The double oak doors stood half an inch ajar. A ribbon of pale lamplight spilled onto the dark hardwood floor.
I swallowed dryly, lifted a hand, and knocked twice.
"Enter."
The voice was low, resonant, and entirely stripped of warmth.
I pushed the door open and limped inside.
The office was vast. Wall-to-wall library shelving climbed twelve feet toward the ceiling, housing antique volumes and financial ledgers. Behind an enormous desk of polished black marble, Luca stood with his back to me, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the rain thrashing the manicured gardens below.
He had discarded his suit jacket. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the cuffs rolled back to reveal muscular forearms crossed behind his back.
"Sit," he commanded without turning around.
There were two wingback chairs of oxblood leather facing his desk. I crossed the room as carefully as I could, but my foot dragged, producing an uneven rhythm on the rug. When I sank into the chair, the sudden release of pressure from my swollen foot nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Luca turned.
His features looked as though they had been carved from granite by an unforgiving chisel—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a square jaw darkened by an evening shadow of stubble. But it was his eyes that made people fold during boardroom negotiations. They were a startling shade of stormy gray, piercing and devoid of hesitation.
He didn't walk behind his desk. Instead, he crossed directly toward me, carrying a silver ice bucket and a rolled linen towel from the wet bar.
"Mr. Moretti, please," I stammered, pulling my legs back toward the base of the chair. "You don't need to—"
"Be still, Emma."
He set the bucket on the side table, dropped to one knee before me, and reached for my left ankle.
My breath hitched. His fingers were broad, warm, and calloused against the cool fabric of my tights. The contrast between his expensive world and my servant’s station was glaring, yet here was the formidable Luca Moretti, kneeling on the carpet at midnight.
He slid off my worn flat shoe. When his thumb lightly brushed the outer curve of my lateral malleolus, a jolt of raw pain tore through me.
"Ah!" I gasped, instinctively yanking back.
"I know," he muttered, his grip firm yet remarkably gentle as he steadied my foot. "It’s badly sprained. The tissue is already discolored."
He wrapped crushed ice into the linen towel and pressed it against the swelling. The freezing cold burned before settling into a welcome numbness. Luca kept one hand beneath my calf to support the limb, his eyes fixed on the injury before slowly lifting to meet mine.
"Now," he said, the baritone of his voice vibrating in the quiet room. "Tell me what happened three hours ago."
"I told you downstairs," I said, trying to steady my trembling voice. "I was running after Sofia when she dropped her toy, and I misstepped on the back stairs."
Luca’s expression didn't shift. "Sofia told me you were crying upstairs before dinner. Sofia was in the kitchen eating sliced peaches with Mrs. Gable at six o'clock. The back stairs are carpeted with industrial grade padding. A misstep there causes a slide, not a localized rotational trauma."
My chest tightened. "I was clumsy—"
"Stop lying to me." His voice didn't rise, but the authority behind it was absolute. "You are many things, Emma. You are quiet. You are endlessly patient with my daughter. But you are not clumsy. And you do not cry easily. When Sofia’s mother died, I learned to recognize fear in a person’s eyes. You have looked terrified of Isabella since the day she moved her luggage into the guest suite."
Before I could formulate an answer, the heavy office doors flew open without a knock.
"Luca, this is utterly absurd!"
Isabella Vance strode into the room, her silk robe billowing around her slender frame. Even with her makeup partially scrubbed away, she possessed the fierce, sharp beauty that dominated socialite magazines. But her eyes were wild, darting furiously between Luca kneeling on the rug and my bare foot resting near his knee.
"You're acting like a house medic for the help!" Isabella snapped, crossing her arms. "The girl was negligent. If she can't watch Sofia without tumbling down the stairs, she shouldn't be employed here. Send her home in an Uber, call the agency for a replacement in the morning, and come to bed."
Luca didn't stand up immediately. He carefully adjusted the ice pack on my ankle, took a deep breath, and rose to his full six-foot-two height.
The air in the room instantly grew thin.
"This is my private office, Isabella," Luca said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "You do not enter without knocking. Ever."
Isabella recoiled slightly, caught off guard by the venom in his tone. "I am your fiancée, Luca! In three months, this will be my house!"
"This house belonged to my grandfather," Luca replied, taking a measured step toward her. "It will belong to Sofia. You are a guest here until the vows are signed. Do not confuse your prospective status with ownership."
A dark flush of crimson rose up Isabella’s pristine neck. "Are you taking her word over mine? A girl from south Chicago who makes fifteen dollars an hour over the woman who shares your social circle?"
"She hasn't said a word," Luca countered smoothly, gesturing back toward me. "She has sat there attempting to protect you. Which only proves how little she understands about what happens when people lie under my roof."
He walked behind his desk, pressed a button on the intercom panel, and picked up a wireless remote.
"Marco," Luca spoke into the speaker.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," the voice of his head of private security crackled back instantly.
"Upload the third-floor corridor feed from 5:30 to 6:00 PM to my primary monitor."
Isabella’s face drained of every ounce of color. Her hands dropped from her chest to her sides, her painted red nails digging into the silk of her robe.
"Luca... wait," she said, her voice suddenly trembling. "There are no cameras on the residential wings. You told me the family floors were private."
Luca looked at her, his eyes cold as glacial ice. "The bedrooms are private. The corridors are security checkpoints. Especially after my wife passed away. You have lived here for three weeks, Isabella. Did you truly believe a man in my position leaves his daughter unprotected?"
He clicked the remote. The massive monitor behind his desk flickered to life.
High-definition footage played without sound.
On the screen, I was seen carrying a stack of folded blankets toward the linen closet. Then, Isabella appeared from the guest wing, intercepting me. The monitor clearly showed her speaking with aggressive gestures. It showed me stepping back, trying to evade her.
And then, unmistakably, it showed Isabella’s manicured hands shoving hard against my right shoulder.
The video captured the exact second my foot twisted beneath me, my body slamming onto the floorboards, the blankets scattering around me like fallen snow. It showed Isabella leaning down, sneering something into my face, and turning on her heel to walk away while I remained curled on the floor, clutching my ankle in agonizing silence.
The office fell into a suffocating, violent quiet.
Luca didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist on the marble.
He simply turned off the screen, set the remote on the desk, and looked at the woman he was supposed to marry.
May you like
"Pack your bags," Luca whispered.
***
