Three more feet. That was all I needed to reach the grand marble fireplace.

Three more feet.

That was all I needed to reach the grand marble fireplace.

The weight of the enormous gold-framed portrait was brutal, pulling heavily toward my injured shoulder. Every time I tried to straighten my spine, a knife of sharp pain sliced right across my left collarbone.

Twenty-eight wealthy, elite guests were watching me struggle beneath the crystal chandeliers of Luca Moretti’s private Chicago mansion.

And the woman sitting right beside him—his glowing fiancée—knew exactly why I was hurt.

"Careful, Claire," Vanessa Bellini projected her voice effortlessly across the dining table. "That custom portrait costs far more than you make in an entire year."

She didn't bother lowering her tone. Whispers immediately spread through the high-society guests.

I tightened my trembling fingers around the metal edge of the rolling display stand. "Yes, ma'am."

"Then stop dragging it across my polished hardwood floor like an untrained mule."

At that exact second, the left wheel caught the thick fringe of the Persian rug.

The stand wobbled violently. I reached out with both hands instinctively to keep the heavy frame from crashing down. A violent spike of agony shot straight down my arm. My left grip failed completely. The portrait tilted precariously toward the fireplace hearth.

Before the glass could shatter, a shadow fell over me. Luca Moretti stood up from his head position at the table and grabbed the opposite corner of the heavy frame with effortless strength.

"Leave it," he commanded quietly.

His voice wasn't loud, but every single conversation within fifty feet ceased instantly. The silence in the room became absolute.

He wasn't looking at the painting. He was staring directly at me—specifically at the way I was pinning my left arm tightly against my waist to stop the visible shaking.

My name is Claire Morgan. I was twenty-nine years old, had worked on the Moretti estate staff for eleven months, and had spent the last four grueling hours pretending my body wasn't broken. Moving a custom four-foot framed canvas usually took two strong groundskeepers. Tonight, Vanessa had personally insisted I haul it into the dining room alone.

My rent was due Friday. My rust-bucket car needed new brake pads. I had exactly seventy-nine dollars left in my bank account. So I had pulled on my black housekeeping uniform and sucked up the pain.

Finish dinner service. Collect my check. Go home. Forget what happened in the carriage house at 3:30 PM.

Luca steadied the frame against the wall. At thirty-nine, Luca Moretti was a terrifyingly calm man—dark suit, crisp white shirt, sharp eyes that missed nothing. He was the kind of man who noticed when people suddenly found their expensive dinners far more interesting than a simple interaction.

Beside him sat Vanessa in a blood-red silk gown and diamond drop earrings. Her perfect smile hadn't wavered since the first guest arrived.

"Claire," Luca said, his dark eyes fixated on my frame.

My stomach twisted into a knot. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"

"Why aren't you using your left arm?"

"It's... just a little sore, sir."

He narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"

Before I could open my mouth, Vanessa chimed in with a light, melodious laugh.

"Oh, darling, she hurt her shoulder in the carriage house this afternoon. Apparently, she tried to move some heavy antique furniture all by herself."

The blood drained from my face.

Luca slowly turned his head, his gaze shifting to his fiancée. "The carriage house?"

Vanessa casually cut a piece of her steak. "Yes, darling. She’s been complaining about it to the staff ever since."

I stared down at the polished floorboards. I hadn't complained to a single soul. And Vanessa herself had explicitly threatened to destroy my life if I ever mentioned what I saw inside that locked building.

Luca turned back to me. "Did you hurt yourself moving furniture?"

I felt Vanessa’s icy stare burning into the side of my neck. "Yes, sir."

"What were you moving?"

"A... a heavy wooden cabinet, sir."

Vanessa immediately added, "She was helping the delivery men clear out old clutter."

Luca caught the phrase instantly. "What delivery men?"

Vanessa hesitated for a fraction of a second, her fork hovering in mid-air. "The men who brought our new engagement portrait, of course."

Luca glanced back at the gold-framed painting standing near the hearth, then turned his gaze back to her.

"The engagement portrait was delivered yesterday afternoon."

The room went dead silent. For a brief moment, Vanessa’s flawless expression cracked.

Then, her gorgeous smile snapped right back into place. "Oh, silly me! They came back today to collect the leftover crates and packing materials."

Luca’s dark eyes lingered on her face. Then he looked at me.

"Did they?"

My throat was completely dry. I forced a small, terrified nod. "Yes."

He studied my trembling hands for several agonizing seconds before making a gesture toward an empty dining chair.

"Sit down, Claire."

I tried to lower my body into the wooden chair, but the sudden shift caused my left collarbone to grind. A sharp gasp escaped my lips.

Luca’s demeanor instantly hardened. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"No, sir. I'm fine."

Vanessa let out an exasperated sigh, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. "For heaven's sake, Luca! She pulled a minor muscle. Do we really need to pause our engagement dinner to interrogate the house staff?"

Luca completely ignored her. He leaned down slightly toward me.

"Claire... what did you actually fall against?"

I swallowed hard. "The... the cabinet."

Vanessa reached for her wine glass with a slight, nervous jerk. Luca’s sharp eyes caught her subtle movement.

Then he looked directly into my eyes. "Did somebody push you?"

I couldn't stop myself. My eyes darted instantly toward Vanessa.

I regretted it the millisecond it happened. Luca followed my gaze and caught the cold, vicious warning flashing in Vanessa’s eyes.

"Claire," Luca's voice was dangerously low. "Are you afraid of losing your job?"

Tears burned the backs of my eyes. "Yes."

"You won't," he said softly. "Not while I run this house."

Vanessa leaned back, her voice laced with venom. "She’s making this far more dramatic than it actually was."

Luca turned his head toward her slowly. "Were you in the carriage house with her?"

Vanessa's smile tightened into a thin line. "I never said that."

"No," Luca replied quietly. "You didn't."

He turned back to me. "Claire, you're finished for tonight. Go upstairs."

Panic seized my chest. "Please, Mr. Moretti, I need the hours on my check—"

"You will be paid for the full week," he interrupted. "Mrs. Carter!"

The head housekeeper stepped forward immediately.

"Help Claire upstairs to the guest wing. Have Dr. Harris examine her shoulder right now."

Vanessa let out another sharp, annoyed sigh. "She doesn't need a private doctor!"

Luca turned his head and locked eyes with his fiancée.

"How do you know?"

Vanessa's smile disappeared completely.

Supported by Mrs. Carter, I slowly stood up. But just as I reached the archway leading out of the dining hall, Luca’s voice stopped me one last time.

"Claire."

I turned around carefully.

"Was Vanessa alone in the carriage house when you got hurt?"

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I looked at Vanessa. She was smiling for the guests again, but her eyes held a lethal promise.

"No, sir," I whispered.

Luca’s jaw set into stone. "Who else was there?"

I couldn't utter the name. Not here. Not in front of twenty-eight powerful people.

Vanessa picked up her glass. "Darling, our guests are waiting for the toast."

Luca watched my face for one more second, registering the pure terror in my posture. Then he nodded once.

"Go get your shoulder checked."

I walked away.

For the next thirty minutes, Luca Moretti played the part of the perfect host. He drank champagne, accepted congratulations, and listened patiently as Vanessa detailed her lavish plans for their upcoming Saturday wedding. By dessert, Vanessa was glowing, confident that her powerful fiancé had accepted our cover story.

She had no idea that at 9:52 PM, while she was busy bragging about her veil, Luca quietly slipped out the side door into the dark, rainy night.

He walked past the manicured gardens toward the ancient brick carriage house. The structure had stood on the estate grounds for eighty years. Tonight, its heavy oak doors were secured with a brand-new, heavy-duty silver padlock.

Luca frowned. He called his head of security, Daniel.

"Who put a new lock on the carriage house?"

"The estate manager, sir," Daniel replied over the radio. "On Miss Bellini's direct order yesterday."

Luca's eyes darkened. "Bring me the bolt cutters. Now."

When the iron chain snapped and dropped to the ground, Luca swung the heavy doors open. Inside, surrounded by dust sheets and covered vintage cars, stood a massive wooden shipping crate.

The destination label pinned to the side was addressed to an obscure black-market art dealer in Philadelphia.

And listed underneath wasn't furniture.

Luca pulled back the blue plastic tarp. Inside the crate was the original, priceless heirloom portrait of his late parents on their wedding day—a painting that had hung in the Moretti home for thirty years.

Vanessa’s grand "engagement portrait" hadn't been an addition to the room. It was meant to permanently replace the master artwork she was secretly stealing.

Luca stared at the stolen family treasure. Then, his eyes caught something trapped in the hinge of the crate door.