Chapter 11 - THE WHISPERS OF THE PAST
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of my new home, casting a soft, golden glow across the polished oak floorboards. For the first time in years, the air in my house didn't taste like ash and suppressed anxiety. It tasted like fresh coffee, blooming jasmine, and absolute freedom. I stood by the kitchen island, watching Roman out in the yard as he carefully assembled a wooden playset for Maya. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms as he tightened a bolt with a socket wrench. He looked up, caught me watching, and flashed a grin that still made my heart do a traitorous, schoolgirl flip.
"You're staring, Nora Vance," he called out, his voice carrying clearly through the open window.
"I'm admiring the contractor," I called back, resting my hands on the cool marble counter. "Though I'm legally obligated to inspect your work before Maya is allowed within fifty feet of that slide."
Roman laughed, tossing the wrench into a metal toolbox before wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm. He walked toward the back door, stepping inside just as the kettle started to whistle. "Inspection granted," he said, stepping up behind me and wrapping his arms securely around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, breathing in the scent of my vanilla shampoo. "Though I should warn you, I come highly recommended by my primary reference."
"Oh? And who might that be?" I asked, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady, comforting thrum of his heartbeat.
"Your dad," Roman murmured. "He told me yesterday that if I ever mess this up, he’ll personally feed me to the gators in the bayou."
I couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped my lips. "Dad loves his hyperbole, but knowing him, he has a contact in the reptile park."
The lighthearted moment lingered for a few precious minutes, but as I reached into the pantry to grab a mug, the heavy weight of the past pressed against the edges of my mind. We had won the battle for Maya, and the boutique PR firm I had launched was thriving beyond my wildest projections. The Rossi name, once a monolithic fortress of intimidation, was now nothing more than a fading memory in the gossip columns—a disgraced dynasty crumbling under the weight of its own arrogance and financial indiscretions. Margaret Rossi was currently facing a federal audit regarding corporate tax irregularities tied to the Rossi Foundation, a fitting karma for a woman who believed money could buy human souls.
Yet, deep down, I knew empires like the Rossis didn't simply vanish into the ether without one final, desperate thrashing.
Later that afternoon, while Roman took Maya down to the community park for her afternoon swing session, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was an unknown number with a local area code. I swiped to answer, expecting a client from the firm.
"Hello, this is Nora Vance."
"You're living a very pretty fairy tale, Nora," a voice purred through the speaker. It was smooth, dripping with synthetic sweetness, and coated in a venom I hadn't heard in months.
My blood ran instantly cold. "Helena."
Helena Rossi, my former sister-in-law, let out a light, musical laugh that scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. "Oh, don't sound so thrilled to hear from your favorite family member. I've been watching you, darling. You and your little handyman playing house in the suburbs. It’s almost sickeningly domestic."
"If you're calling to gloat about your mother's current legal troubles, you're dialing the wrong number," I said, my voice hardening as I forced the tremor out of my tone. "I don't care about Margaret, and I certainly don't care about you."
May you like
"You should care, Nora," Helena hissed, the sugary facade instantly dropping to reveal a feral, desperate edge. "Because while you're playing CEO and mother of the year, you forgot to check the fine print of the original custody settlement. Mother might be tied up in court, but she left a few loose ends. And those loose ends have teeth."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
