Chapter 1 - THE BANDAGE
(800 words)
The first time Luca Moretti saw me feeding his son with one hand, I prayed he wouldn’t notice the other.
It was wrapped in white gauze. Badly. Too tight around the wrist, too loose across the palm, with a faint pink stain already beginning to show through the center.
I kept that hand tucked beneath the edge of the breakfast table while I lifted another spoonful of oatmeal toward Matteo’s mouth.
“Airplane,” I whispered.
The four-year-old opened his mouth immediately. “Higher.”
I smiled despite myself and lifted the spoon in a slow, dramatic circle. “Captain Matteo requests altitude.”
He giggled. For one second, everything felt normal.
Then the room went quiet. Not silent. Quiet. There was a difference in the Moretti house. Silence happened when nobody was speaking. Quiet happened when Luca entered a room.
I felt him before I saw him. The staff near the doorway straightened. Matteo’s nanny assistant stopped arranging fruit. Even the chef lowered his voice.
I looked up. Luca stood in the archway wearing a dark charcoal suit, his jacket unbuttoned, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes moved to Matteo first. Then to me. Then to the way I was awkwardly holding the spoon with my left hand.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. Don’t look at the bandage. Please don’t look at the bandage.
I lowered my right hand farther beneath the table.
Matteo kicked his little feet. “Daddy!”
Luca’s face softened immediately. “Morning, champ.”
He crossed the room. I focused on the bowl. One more spoonful. Then another. Maybe he would kiss his son goodbye and leave. Maybe I’d make it through breakfast without questions.
Then Isabella walked in.
She wore a pale silk dress and looked completely rested, as if she hadn’t spent twenty minutes the night before standing over me in the kitchen while blood ran down my fingers. Her eyes found me. Then the hand I was hiding.
Something sharp flickered across her face. And before Luca had even reached the table, she said, “She cut herself opening a can in the kitchen.”
The spoon stopped halfway to Matteo’s mouth. My blood went cold.
Luca stopped walking. Slowly, he turned toward Isabella. “What?”
She gave a careless little shrug. “Emma. Her hand.”
I stared at her. Luca hadn’t asked. He hadn’t seen the bandage. Not yet. But Isabella had already explained it.
Matteo tugged at my sleeve. “Airplane.”
“Right,” I whispered. My fingers trembled.
Luca looked at me now. Really looked. His gaze dropped straight to the hand hidden beneath the table. “Show me.”
My stomach tightened. “It’s nothing, Mr. Moretti.”
Isabella laughed lightly. “I told you. She was careless.”
Luca didn’t look at her. “Emma.”
His voice was quiet. That made it worse. I slowly brought my right hand into view. The white gauze looked painfully bright against the dark mahogany table.
Matteo frowned. “Emma has an ouchie.”
Luca’s expression changed. Just slightly. “What happened?”
I opened my mouth. Isabella answered again. “The can slipped. She grabbed the lid wrong.”
Luca’s eyes went to her. “I asked Emma.”
The room seemed to shrink. Isabella smiled, but it wasn’t natural anymore. I could see the tension in her jaw. The truth was nothing like what she had said. There had been no can. No accident.
The night before, I had been washing Matteo’s favorite cup after Isabella told the kitchen staff to leave. She had followed me in, closed the door, and accused me of making Matteo too attached to me.
“He calls for you when he wakes up,” she had said.
“I’m his caregiver.”
“You’re staff.”
I had tried to walk past her. She blocked me. Then she grabbed the crystal glass in my hand. For one terrifying second, we both held it. Then she squeezed and let go. The glass shattered in my palm. I screamed. Isabella didn’t. She just stared at the blood, then whispered, “Next time, remember where you belong.”
Now Luca stood across from me. Waiting. “Emma?”
I looked at Isabella. Her eyes said everything: Stay quiet.
I swallowed. “I was in the kitchen.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “That isn’t what I asked.”
Matteo reached over and touched the edge of my bandage. “Miss Emma cried.”
My heart stopped.
Luca looked at his son. “When?”
“Last night.”
Isabella went still. Matteo continued, completely innocent. “I heard her.”
Luca’s eyes moved back to me. Then to Isabella. The warmth disappeared from his face. “Interesting.”
Isabella crossed her arms. “What is?”
He stepped closer to the table. “You knew how she hurt herself before I even knew she was hurt.”
Nobody spoke. Luca looked directly at me.
May you like
“Take off the bandage.”
My breath caught. Isabella’s face lost color. And that was when I realized something. She wasn’t afraid of the cut. She was afraid of what Luca might see underneath it.
