Chapter 2 - The Secret Behind the Rejections
The following morning, nobody mentioned the gunshot.
I did.
“You were shot at.”
Luca drank his coffee.
“Yes.”
“You could've died.”
“Yes.”
“You say that like I'm asking whether you had toast.”
He looked at me.
“You're upset.”
“I'm trying to decide whether this marriage requires bulletproof clothing.”
“You're safe.”
“You're not.”
“I've been doing this for a long time.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“I'm learning.”
“What?”
“To reassure you.”
I sat across from him.
The breakfast room was enormous.
Too enormous.
The table could seat twenty people.
There were only four of us.
Luca.
Me.
Elena.
And Marco, who was reading something on his tablet.
I noticed how different everyone became when Luca entered the room.
Voices lowered.
Movements became careful.
But none of them looked afraid of him.
They respected him.
That was different.
I finished my coffee.
“Tell me about the women before me.”
Marco stopped reading.
Elena looked at Luca.
Luca put down his cup.
“There were five.”
“Why didn't they stay?”
“Some left immediately.”
“And the others?”
“They wanted things I couldn't give them.”
“What things?”
“Public appearances. A glamorous life. Social connections.”
“That doesn't sound unreasonable.”
“For them, maybe.”
“For you?”
“I didn't trust them.”
I frowned.
“Why not?”
He looked down.
“Because they were afraid of me.”
“Everyone is afraid of you.”
“Not you.”
“I was terrified when you walked through that doorway.”
“But you didn't leave.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I thought about it.
“Because you looked sad.”
His expression changed.
Elena smiled faintly.
He ignored her.
“You notice too much.”
“I've been told.”
After breakfast, Luca showed me the estate.
The kitchens were the largest I had ever seen.
There were six ovens.
Three refrigerators.
An entire pastry room.
I stopped walking.
“You have a pastry kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Who uses it?”
“No one.”
“Why?”
“I don't bake.”
“That seems like a waste.”
He looked at me.
“You can.”
I blinked.
“You remembered.”
“You said you were a baker.”
“I did.”
“Then use it.”
I stared at him.
“You're giving me a kitchen?”
“It was unused.”
I stepped inside.
Marble counters.
Copper pans.
Professional ovens.
A cooling station.
Everything.
I touched one of the mixers.
“This costs more than my apartment.”
“You're exaggerating.”
“I promise you, I'm not.”
He leaned against the doorframe.
“What would you make first?”
I smiled.
“A cake.”
“Why?”
“Because you're marrying someone who makes cakes.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Are we?”
I laughed.
“Not if you keep looking at me like that.”
For the first time, he laughed.
It was deep.
Warm.
Unexpected.
I liked the sound.
Too much.
Later that afternoon, I baked.
It was the first time I felt normal since arriving in Italy.
Flour on my cheek.
Butter everywhere.
Music playing from my phone.
Luca appeared halfway through.
He stood in the doorway.
I turned.
“You're wearing a suit.”
“Yes.”
“You came into a kitchen wearing a suit.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I smelled chocolate.”
I laughed.
“You have an entire kitchen staff.”
“They don't make what you make.”
I stared.
“You haven't tasted anything.”
“I will.”
I handed him a spoon.
He tasted the batter.
His eyes closed.
“Good?”
He nodded.
“Very.”
I smiled.
“See? I'm useful.”
His face changed.
“Don't say that.”
“What?”
“You don't need to be useful to deserve a place here.”
My smile faded.
He looked almost angry.
Not at me.
At the idea.
“I don't want you thinking you owe me something.”
I put down the spoon.
“What happened to make you like this?”
He looked away.
“Too many people treated affection like a transaction.”
That night, I found Elena sitting alone in the library.
She poured me tea.
“You like him.”
I almost choked.
“I've known him three days.”
“You still like him.”
“I don't know.”
“You're the first woman who has ever answered him without lowering her eyes.”
“I lower my eyes plenty.”
“Not around him.”
She smiled.
Then she told me the part nobody had mentioned.
Luca hadn't always been huge.
He had a medical condition as a teenager that caused extreme growth.
By twenty, he was six foot six.
By twenty-five, his body had become something people stared at.
He'd been mocked.
Photographed without permission.
Rejected publicly.
Women had laughed at him.
Some had told reporters they couldn't imagine being seen beside him.
He stopped dating.
Then his father died.
Luca inherited the Moretti organization.
He became even more isolated.
“He doesn't trust compliments,” Elena said.
“Why?”
“Because most people use them to get something.”
I looked toward the library window.
“So that's why he expected me to reject him.”
“Yes.”
“But you know what else I think?”
“What?”
“He isn't afraid women don't like his size.”
“Then what?”
“He's afraid nobody will stay long enough to know him.”
Elena smiled.
“Exactly.”
The next morning, I was making croissants when a package arrived.
No name.
No address.
Only the Moretti seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Luca standing beside a dead man.
The dead man's face was my father's.
I dropped the photograph.
My hands began shaking.
Luca found me seconds later.
He saw the picture.
Everything changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“It came in the package.”
He picked it up.
His face went pale.
“This is impossible.”
“Why?”
“My father took this photograph.”
“What?”
“Eight years ago.”
I stared at him.
“My father died six years ago.”
He looked at me.
“Exactly.”
Neither of us spoke.
Then the package phone rang.
I answered before he could stop me.
A disguised voice whispered:
“Ask your husband why your father was still alive when everyone said he was dead.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Luca.
He didn't speak.
May you like
And for the first time since I arrived, I realized the marriage agreement wasn't the most important secret between our families.
My father was.
