Chapter 3 - The Doctor and the Dragon
The sharp knock on my bedroom door came at exactly eight o'clock the following morning.
I was already awake. Truthfully, I hadn’t slept more than two hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I replayed the way Luca Moretti had knelt on the floor of his study, the heat of his hands against my bare skin, and the lethal quiet in his voice when he spoke of his fiancée.
I sat up in my small bed in the staff wing, testing my left foot on the floorboards. The swelling hadn't vanished, but the ice had kept it from ballooning further. Still, putting full weight on it made my vision blur with pain.
Before I could reach for the robe hanging on the chair, the door opened.
Dr. Mercer, an elderly man with silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a leather medical bag, stepped into the room. Behind him stood Luca.
Luca had already dressed for the day: a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, his hair neatly combed back, exuding the crisp authority of a man who commanded billions before breakfast. Yet, instead of being in his Midtown skyscraper, he was standing in the narrow hallway of his staff quarters.
“Good morning, Emma,” Dr. Mercer said warmly, pulling up the single wooden chair beside my bed. “Luca dragged me out of my clinic before I could finish my first cup of coffee. Let’s take a look at this foot.”
I glanced nervously toward Luca, who remained leaning against the doorframe, his dark gaze pinned to me. “Mr. Moretti, you really didn't need to do this. A simple bandage would have been fine.”
“I decide what is necessary in this house,” Luca answered smoothly, not taking his eyes off me. “Examine her, Arthur.”
For the next ten minutes, Dr. Mercer poked, prodded, and rotated my ankle. He hummed thoughtfully, confirming what Luca had suspected the night before: a severe Grade 2 ligament sprain.
“No fracture,” Dr. Mercer announced, pulling a heavy-duty walking boot and a pair of lightweight crutches from beside his bag. “But you are forbidden from bearing full weight on this for at least a week. I’m wrapping it, and you will wear this boot whenever you are out of bed. Luca, she needs complete rest.”
“She’ll have it,” Luca said without hesitation.
“I can’t just lie around,” I protested, looking at Luca. “Sofia has preschool prep, and she likes having her lunch cut a specific way, and—”
“Mrs. Gable has been briefed,” Luca interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “The kitchen staff will handle meals. Sofia will spend her morning quiet time in your room if she wishes, but you will not cook, clean, or carry anything heavier than a paperback book.”
Dr. Mercer chuckled softly as he packed his instruments. “Listen to him, Emma. When a Moretti gives an order, the city listens. You’d do well to follow suit.”
As Dr. Mercer stood to leave, the sharp scent of heavy floral perfume heralded the arrival of trouble.
Isabella Vance appeared in the doorway, clad in an immaculate pastel-pink wool coat, her oversized designer sunglasses perched atop her head. She looked from Dr. Mercer to the crutches on the floor, and finally to Luca.
Her expression was a masterclass in faux-concern masking barely contained fury.
“Oh, darling!” Isabella gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as she stepped into the small room. “Is it really that bad? A private doctor for a twisted ankle?”
Dr. Mercer gave her a polite, stiff nod. “Severe sprain, Miss Vance. Miss Emma will require rest.”
“Of course,” Isabella purred, stepping closer to my bed. She looked down at me, her smile razor-thin, cold as winter frost. “We certainly wouldn't want our dear nanny to suffer. In fact, Luca... I was thinking on the drive over. Perhaps it would be best for everyone if Emma took a few weeks of paid leave? My family’s agency can provide a temporary replacement within the hour. Someone... fully able-bodied.”
The room went instantly still.
The threat wasn't subtle. A “temporary replacement” from the Vance agency meant I would be packed into a cab before noon, never to return.
I held my breath, watching Luca.
Luca didn't move from his position by the door. He straightened his cuffs, his movements slow, deliberate, and chillingly controlled.
“No replacement is necessary,” Luca said, his voice flat.
Isabella’s smile faltered. “Luca, be reasonable. Sofia needs constant supervision. A crippled nanny is a liability. What if there’s an emergency? What if Sofia falls into the pool? What if—”
“Sofia will not fall into the pool because the pool is covered and locked,” Luca cut in, his eyes locking onto Isabella with enough force to freeze water. “Emma stays in her quarters. Sofia will come to her. That is the end of the discussion.”
Isabella’s cheeks flared with a sudden, ugly blotch of crimson. She wasn't used to being dismissed, especially not in front of hired help.
“You’re undermining me, Luca,” she said, her voice dropping into a harsh, lower register. “In front of a servant.”
“I am managing my household,” Luca replied coldly. “Arthur, thank you for your time. My driver will take you back to Manhattan.”
Dr. Mercer took the cue with the speed of an experienced diplomat, quickly nodding to me and exiting the room.
Luca turned his attention fully to Isabella. “A word in my office. Now.”
Isabella hesitated, her jaw clenched tight enough to pop. She cast one last, venomous glare in my direction—a look that promised total ruin—before spinning on her designer stilettos and storming down the corridor.
Luca lingered for a second longer. His eyes swept over me, ensuring the walking boot was strapped on and the ice pack was secure.
“Do not leave this bed until noon,” he ordered quietly.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered.
He didn't reply, but the slight nod he gave before closing my door carried more reassurance than a thousand promises.
Two hours later, a gentle tap sounded on the wood.
The door creaked open, and Sofia poked her small head inside. She was clutching a large, battered picture book about ocean animals and a stuffed velvet rabbit.
“Emma?” she asked tentatively.
“Come here, sweetie,” I said, lifting the covers slightly.
Sofia’s face lit up. She hurried across the room, carefully clambering onto the mattress and snuggling beneath the duvet beside me, resting her head against my side just as she had the night before.
“Daddy said your foot is broken like a toy,” Sofia whispered, inspecting the black walking boot with wide, solemn eyes.
I laughed softly, stroking her dark curls. “Not broken. Just resting. Like a toy that needs new batteries.”
“Isabella is loud today,” Sofia confided, pressing closer. “She was yelling at Daddy in the big room. She said nasty words. She said you were a snake.”
My chest tightened. “Sofia, you shouldn't listen to grown-up conversations.”
“I don't like her,” the little girl said plainly, looking up at me with absolute honesty. “She smells like flowers that make me sneeze. When Daddy isn't looking, she pinches my arm if I don't sit straight. She told me yesterday that when they get married, you won't live here anymore. She said she’s sending me to boarding school in Switzerland.”
Cold fury surged through my veins, hot and protective.
*Boarding school?* Sofia was five years old. She had lost her mother to cancer when she was barely three. The thought of Isabella tearing this fragile, sweet child away from the only home she knew made my blood boil.
“She’s not sending you anywhere, Sofia,” I said, wrapping my arms tightly around her small shoulders. “Your daddy loves you too much to ever let that happen. And I’m right here.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
We spent the rest of the morning reading about blue whales and giant octopuses. For a little while, the heavy, suffocating tension of the Moretti estate lifted, replaced by Sofia’s quiet giggles.
Around two in the afternoon, the door swung open without a knock.
Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper—a stern woman in her late fifties who usually kept her opinions firmly to herself—walked in carrying a silver lunch tray. On it was a bowl of roasted tomato bisque, grilled artisanal sourdough, and a carafe of iced tea.
“Lunch for the invalid,” Mrs. Gable announced briskly, setting the tray across my lap.
“Mrs. Gable, you didn't have to carry this all the way up here,” I said, embarrassed. “I could have managed with the crutches—”
“Mr. Moretti’s explicit instructions,” she interrupted, though the corners of her mouth twitched with a rare, approving smirk. “He gave Miss Vance quite the tongue-lashing this morning, you know. Closed the study doors, but you could hear the tone through the mahogany. Miss Vance left in a town car twenty minutes ago, furiously texting her father.”
Mrs. Gable leaned down slightly, adjusting Sofia’s blanket with practiced hands.
May you like
“Be careful, Emma,” the older woman whispered, her voice dropping into conspiratorial gravity. “Isabella’s father, Richard Vance, owns thirty percent of the logistics chain Luca needs for his European expansion. Luca may be a billionaire, but a marriage like that isn't just about rings. It’s about power. Isabella won't take this sitting down. When a viper gets cornered, it doesn't run away. It strikes.”
***
