By the time Luca Moretti saw me carrying his sleeping daughter down the staircase, my left ankle was already swollen inside my worn leather flat.

An hour later, the Moretti estate was once again wrapped in profound, heavy silence.

The limousines had departed into the rainy night. Richard Vance and his board members had slunk away with their tails between their legs, realizing that the Moretti billions were not to be blackmailed by family connections.

Upstairs, I had finally managed to calm Sofia down.

I had drawn her a warm bubble bath, helped her change into her favorite fleece pajamas covered in tiny yellow stars, and sat beside her bed reading three chapters of *The Secret Garden* until her breathing deepened into peaceful slumber.

I sat in the armchair beside her bed, massaging my aching ankle through the heavy walking boot. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving my entire body exhausted and trembling.

The bedroom door opened silently.

Luca stepped inside.

He had discarded his suit jacket, tie, and cufflinks. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves pushed up past his forearms. He looked weary, lines of stress etched deep around his mouth, but the terrifying darkness that had dominated him downstairs had dissipated.

He walked over to Sofia’s bedside, looking down at his sleeping daughter for a long, quiet minute. With infinite gentleness, he reached out and brushed a dark strand of hair from her cheek.

“She’s asleep?” he asked in a whisper.

“Out like a light,” I murmured. “She was just frightened. She’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Luca let out a slow breath through his nose. He turned his gaze toward me, taking in my pale face, my slumped shoulders, and the crutches resting against the wall.

“Come with me,” he said softly.

“Sir, I should stay—”

“She’s asleep, Emma. Come downstairs. You haven't eaten dinner.”

I hesitated, but there was an unexpected gentleness in his tone that made defiance impossible. Grabbing my crutches, I pushed myself up from the armchair and followed him down the quiet hallway, down the grand staircase, and straight into the massive, darkened kitchen.

The kitchen staff had already gone off-duty, leaving the stainless steel countertops spotless and gleaming under the low under-cabinet lights.

Luca didn't call for a maid. Instead, he pulled out a high-backed barstool at the kitchen island and gestured toward it.

“Sit.”

I sat, propping my crutches against the counter.

To my complete disbelief, Luca Moretti—a man whose time was billed at tens of thousands of dollars an hour—walked over to the commercial refrigerator, pulled out a loaf of crusty sourdough, a block of sharp cheddar, and a package of cured ham.

“Mr. Moretti, what are you doing?” I asked, my voice laced with bewilderment.

“Making you a sandwich,” he replied without turning around, grabbing a skillet and placing it on the stove.

“You don't have to do that! I can make something—”

“Emma,” he said, casting a sharp look over his shoulder, “if you try to stand on that foot right now, I will personally carry you to your bedroom and lock the door. Sit still.”

I shut my mouth, my cheeks heating up.

I watched in stunned silence as the billionaire melted butter in the pan, assembled two thick sandwiches with methodical precision, and grilled them until the bread was golden brown and the cheese was bubbling.

He slid one onto a porcelain plate and placed it in front of me, along with a tall glass of ice water. He took the other sandwich for himself, leaning against the counter opposite me.

“Eat,” he ordered gently.

The sandwich was incredible—crisp, buttery, and hot. I hadn't realized how starving I was until the first bite.

For several minutes, the only sound was the rain against the kitchen skylight.

“I’m sorry,” Luca said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

I almost choked on my crust. “Sorry for what?”

Luca looked down at his plate, his jaw tightening. “For bringing that woman into this house. For subjecting Sofia—and you—to her poison.”

“You didn't know she would snap like that,” I offered quietly.

“I should have,” he countered, his voice laced with bitter self-reproach. “I saw the signs weeks ago. But I convinced myself that an alliance with Vance was necessary for the firm. When Sofia’s mother, Elena, died two years ago... the business was the only thing that kept me grounded. I poured everything into numbers, acquisitions, contracts. I thought as long as Sofia had wealth, security, and a future, that was enough.”

He looked up, his dark eyes vulnerable in a way that took my breath away.

“I forgot that a child needs warmth. Not an empire.”

“Sofia has warmth,” I said softly, holding his gaze. “She has it every time you come home early to check on her. She knows you love her, Mr. Moretti.”

“Luca,” he corrected quietly. “Call me Luca.”

My pulse fluttered against my throat. “Luca.”

A faint, wry smile touched his lips—the first genuine smile I had ever seen on his face. It transformed his harsh features, making him breathtakingly handsome.

“You stood up to her tonight,” Luca murmured, studying me with an intensity that made the skin on my arms tingle. “You put your body between Isabella and my daughter without a second thought, even with a torn ligament.”

“I couldn't let her hurt Sofia,” I whispered honestly. “I love that little girl. She’s... she’s special.”

Luca stepped closer, rounding the island until he was standing right beside my stool. The scent of him—rich cedar, rain, and clean soap—enveloped me completely.

He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

His touch sent a shiver straight down my spine. Neither of us moved. His hand lingered on the curve of my jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheekbone. His dark eyes searched mine, looking deeper than anyone ever had.

“You’re special, Emma,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble. “More than you know.”

My breath caught in my throat. For a suspended, electric heartbeat, I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me. The tension in the kitchen was unbearable, thick with a yearning that had been building between us for weeks.

Then, Luca slowly pulled his hand back, as if remembering where we were—and who we were.

He cleared his throat, stepping back into the shadow of the counter.

“The engagement is finished,” he said, his tone returning to business, though a subtle crack remained. “I will make the official announcement on Monday. Richard Vance will retaliate in the markets, but my legal team is already preparing counter-measures.”

“Will you lose the merger?” I asked quietly.

Luca looked at me, his eyes burning with an unshakable resolve.

“I don't give a damn about the merger,” he said flatly. “No contract in the world is worth the safety of the people under my roof.”

He picked up my empty plate and set it in the sink.

“Go to bed, Emma. Take the crutches. Tomorrow... tomorrow we start fresh.”

I nodded, my heart hammering like a trapped bird as I grabbed my crutches and made my way back to my quarters.

I didn't sleep that night, but for the first time since I had stepped into the Moretti mansion, it wasn't out of fear.