Chapter 2 - The Midnight Summons
Carrying Sofia back up to her bedroom felt like climbing a mountain through a field of broken glass. Every stair sent a fresh pulse of fire radiating from my ankle up into my knee, but adrenaline carried me through the upper corridor.
Sofia’s bedroom was a vast, soft sanctuary painted in pale blush and cream, filled with stuffed animals she rarely played with and towering shelves of storybooks. I laid her down gently upon the thick down mattress, slipping off her tiny pink shoes and drawing the embroidered duvet up to her chin.
She blinked sleepily up at me in the dim glow of her nightlight. “Emma? Is Daddy mad at you?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing the gentlest smile I could muster as I brushed a stray curl away from her forehead. “No, sweetheart. Your daddy isn't mad at me. He just needs to talk to me about big-kid stuff. Go back to sleep, okay?”
Sofia reached out, her small fingers wrapping around my thumb. “You won’t leave, right? Like the others?”
Her words hit me straight in the ribs. Before me, Luca had gone through three nannies in six months. Isabella had chased two of them away with impossible demands, and the third had simply quit without notice because the house was so cold and demanding. Sofia had learned early that people disappeared from her life without warning.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” I whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her hair. “I promise. Close your eyes.”
She sighed, her grip loosening as exhaustion finally dragged her back into sleep.
I stood slowly, clutching the edge of the dresser until my foot found a stable angle. Slipping out of her room, I shut the heavy mahogany door with a barely audible click.
I turned around—and nearly ran straight into Isabella.
She stood in the darkened hallway, leaning against the wainscoting with her arms crossed over her chest. The sweet, cultured heiress had vanished. In her place was a woman vibrating with venomous hostility.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she hissed in a vicious whisper.
I backed up half a step, leaning against the doorframe to keep the weight off my left foot. “Miss Vance, I didn’t say anything to him. Sofia spoke on her own.”
“You paraded yourself down those stairs looking like a bruised martyr!” Isabella sneered, closing the distance until she was inches away, her breath smelling of peppermint and expensive white wine. “Let me make something exceptionally clear to you, Emma. Luca and I are getting married in four months. My father controls the board of Moretti Enterprises’ newest acquisition. I belong here. You are nothing more than a peasant hired off an agency catalog to wipe my future stepdaughter’s nose.”
“I do my job,” I said evenly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. “And I take care of Sofia. That’s all I’ve ever done.”
“Then keep your mouth shut in that study,” she warned, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. “You tell him you slipped on the rug. You tell him Sofia was mistaken. Because if you utter a single word about what happened earlier, I will ensure you never work in this state again. I will tell the agency you stole from me. Who do you think they’ll believe? A girl with two hundred dollars in her checking account, or a Vance?”
The cruelty was casual, effortless. It was the absolute confidence of someone who had spent her entire life stepping on people without consequence.
Without waiting for an answer, Isabella spun on her heel and strode down the long hallway toward the guest wing, the sharp click of her heels fading into the carpeted silence.
I leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes, and took a long, trembling breath.
*Two hundred dollars.* She wasn't far off. My savings account was dangerously close to empty, drained by my mother’s medical bills before she passed away last winter. If I lost this placement without a reference, I wouldn't even be able to cover next month’s rent on my tiny studio apartment in Queens.
I had no choice. I had to go to his study, apologize, smooth things over, and take the blame.
Limping down the west corridor toward the executive wing of the house, every step was an exercise in pure willpower. The oak doors of Luca’s private study stood slightly ajar, a beam of warm amber light cutting across the dark hallway runner.
I raised a trembling hand and knocked twice.
“Enter.”
The command was curt, low, and unmistakable.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The study was cavernous, smelling rich with the scents of aged cedar, leather-bound books, and expensive bourbon. Behind a massive mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dark silhouette of the estate gardens beaten by the midnight rain.
Luca wasn't behind the desk.
He was standing near a leather chesterfield sofa, having shed his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing corded muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo winding around his left wrist.
On the low table in front of the sofa sat a stainless steel bowl of ice, a clean white towel, and a first-aid kit.
I froze in the doorway. “Mr. Moretti?”
Luca didn't look up from unwrapping a compression bandage. “Shut the door, Emma. And sit down.”
“I can stand, sir—”
His eyes snapped to mine. They were unnervingly dark, framed by thick lashes and a hard, aristocratic brow that rarely showed patience for hesitation.
“You can barely put two ounces of pressure on that foot,” he said flatly. “Sit on the couch before you collapse on my Persian rug.”
Swallowing my pride, I limped across the room. The distance felt like a marathon, but I managed to reach the sofa and lower myself down onto the deep leather cushion. Relief washed over me the moment I took the weight off my ankle, though the throbbing ache didn't subside.
Luca walked over, picked up the bowl of ice, and set it on the floor. Then, to my utter shock, he dropped down onto one knee directly in front of me.
My breath hitched. “Mr. Moretti, please don’t. You don't have to—”
“Stop talking,” he muttered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Before I could pull away, his large, warm hands reached out and gently took hold of my left foot. Even through my thin sock, the heat of his skin sent a bizarre, electric jolt straight up my spine. His touch was remarkably gentle for a man whose reputation in the business world was defined by ruthlessness.
With careful, methodical precision, he eased my shoe off, setting it aside, before sliding the dark sock down over my heel.
When my ankle was fully exposed, Luca’s jaw tightened visibly.
The joint was horribly swollen, the pale skin stretched tight and mottled with ugly shades of dark purple and blue.
Luca’s thumbs grazed the outer edge of the swelling, checking for broken bones. I hissed, biting my lower lip until I tasted copper to keep from crying out.
“Torn ligaments, most likely,” Luca murmured, his voice deadly quiet. “Not broken, but severe enough.”
He picked up a hand towel, packed it with ice, and gently rested it against the inflamed skin. The shock of the cold made me gasp, but after a few seconds, the fiery burn began to numb into a dull ache.
Luca remained on one knee, looking up at me. In the dim lamplight, the sharp contours of his face seemed carved from marble, save for the fierce intensity burning in his eyes.
“Now,” he said quietly, resting his forearms against his knee. “Tell me how this happened.”
I clutched my hands tightly in my lap, Isabella’s vicious parting words ringing in my ears. *Who do you think they’ll believe?*
“I told you downstairs, sir,” I lied, my voice wavering slightly. “I was careless. I tripped near the linen closet. Sofia must have seen me sitting there trying to catch my breath and thought I was crying.”
Luca didn't blink. He just stared at me, his gaze so piercing I felt as if he could see right through my ribs into my racing heart.
“You’re a terrible liar, Emma.”
“I’m telling the truth—”
“Isabella pushed you, didn't she?”
The blunt question hit the room like a gunshot.
My mouth snapped shut. I stared at him, wide-eyed, completely stripped of my defense.
Luca let out a slow, dangerous exhale, standing up to his full, imposing height. He walked over to his desk, picked up his glass of scotch, took a measured sip, and turned back to face me.
“You think I don't know who my fiancée is?” he asked, his voice chillingly calm. “You think I don't know the spite she carries beneath a five-thousand-dollar dress?”
“I... I don't know what you mean,” I managed to whisper.
Luca leaned against the edge of his desk, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Isabella has spent the last three weeks complaining that Sofia prefers you to her. She complained that you dressed Sofia in yellow instead of pink. She complained that my daughter asked for *you* when she scraped her knee last Tuesday instead of running to her future stepmother.”
He set the glass down with a soft, heavy clink.
“And tonight, Isabella claimed you were chasing Sofia downstairs. Except Sofia’s bedroom is on the east wing, and the only linen closet in use this evening is on the second-floor west corridor. You had no business chasing my daughter through the guest gallery.”
He paused, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Furthermore, Emma... you don't chase Sofia. You never run in this house. You walk with her, you read to her, and you treat her with more patience than anyone has since her mother passed away.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and humiliating. For weeks, I had thought I was entirely invisible in this sprawling, cold estate. I thought Luca Moretti only saw a faceless employee in a navy dress.
To realize he had been watching me—observing the smallest details of how I cared for his daughter—left me entirely breathless.
“She told me you would fire me,” I confessed, the truth finally breaking through my defenses in a ragged whisper. “She said she’d tell the agency I was a thief. I can’t lose this job, Mr. Moretti. I have nowhere else to go.”
Luca walked back toward the sofa. He didn't sit, but he stood over me, his presence massive and strangely protective.
“No one fires you in this house except me,” he said, each word hard and absolute. “And as long as you protect my daughter the way you do, you will never be out of a job.”
He looked down at the ice pack resting on my ankle.
“Isabella will not touch you again. I will handle her.”
“Mr. Moretti, your wedding—”
“Is an arrangement,” Luca cut in sharply, his jaw ticking. “One that can be renegotiated if boundaries are crossed.”
He looked down at me, his gaze softening by a minuscule fraction, though the fire behind it remained.
“Tomorrow morning, Dr. Mercer will be here at eight to examine that foot and write you a prescription. You will stay off your feet for three days. My private staff will handle Sofia’s meals.”
“I can still read to her,” I offered quickly, desperate not to feel useless. “I can sit in the playroom.”
Luca stared at me for a long moment, something complex and unreadable shifting across his dark features.
“You never stop, do you?” he murmured.
“I care about her, sir.”
A flicker of genuine warmth—brief, fleeting, but undeniably real—touched his eyes before he masked it behind his usual professional veneer.
May you like
“Get some rest, Emma,” he said quietly, stepping aside to clear the path to the door. “From this moment on, you don't hide anything from me. Not in my house.”
***
