Chapter 2 - The Family Secret Beneath the Christmas Tree
The next morning, I woke before sunrise.
For several minutes, I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling.
The previous night replayed in my head.
My name.
The letter.
Luca’s father.
Victor’s warning.
And one sentence that wouldn’t leave me alone.
If she finds the letter, the family loses everything.
I got dressed quietly.
By the time I reached the hallway, the estate was almost silent.
I found Luca standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept either.
“You heard.”
It wasn’t a question.
I folded my arms.
“I heard enough.”
He put the cup down.
“What did you hear?”
“My name.”
Nothing.
Then, “And a letter.”
His face tightened.
“Who told you?”
“Your uncle.”
Luca looked toward the doorway.
“Of course.”
“What is he talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“You don’t get to decide what I need to know.”
He walked toward me.
“I do when your safety is involved.”
“That sentence is getting old.”
He stopped.
“Emma—”
“No.”
I grabbed my coat.
“I’m going home.”
He looked genuinely troubled.
“Wait.”
“I agreed to fake a relationship for one night. I did not agree to become part of some family conspiracy.”
“It isn’t a conspiracy.”
“Then what is it?”
He had no answer.
I walked toward the door.
Then a voice came from behind me.
“Emma.”
Isabella.
She stood in the hallway holding the railing.
Luca rushed toward her.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Then she looked at me.
“Stay.”
I hesitated.
“Please.”
Something in her voice made me stop.
We sat together in the library.
Isabella closed the door.
“My husband left this family one great gift.”
“A fortune?”
“No.”
She touched an old photograph.
“Regret.”
I didn’t understand.
She told me that twenty-six years earlier, Luca’s father, Matteo Moretti, had discovered that someone inside the company was stealing money from charitable accounts.
He wanted to expose the theft.
Before he could, a car accident killed him.
The official investigation ruled it accidental.
Isabella never believed that.
“What does this have to do with me?”
She looked at me.
“Your father worked for Matteo.”
My heart stopped.
“My father?”
“Daniel Carter.”
I stared.
“My father was an accountant.”
“He was more than that.”
Luca entered the room.
He looked surprised.
“Grandmother.”
“She deserves the truth.”
He closed the door.
I turned to him.
“You knew?”
“Only that your father had worked for mine.”
“You knew my father and never told me?”
“I didn’t know if it was connected.”
“Connected to what?”
“The letter.”
The room went silent.
Luca explained that after his father died, Matteo’s private attorney had delivered a sealed package.
It had never been opened.
A note on the package said:
Deliver only to Daniel Carter’s daughter.
I stared.
“Why would your father leave something for me?”
“Because he trusted your father.”
“Where is it?”
“Missing.”
“Missing?”
“My uncle Victor had access to the estate archives.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“Then Victor has it.”
“Maybe.”
Isabella sighed.
“Victor is not the only danger.”
I looked at her.
“Who else?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Luca crouched beside her.
“You need to rest.”
She nodded.
Before leaving, she caught my wrist.
“Do not trust anyone who tells you the past is dead.”
Her fingers tightened.
“The past is never dead in this family.”
We returned to Manhattan that afternoon.
I assumed the charade was over.
It wasn’t.
The photos from the Christmas party had already appeared online.
The Moretti family had been photographed together.
Luca and I were in the center.
Holding hands.
Smiling.
The headline read:
MORETTI HEIR FINALLY INTRODUCES MYSTERY WOMAN
My phone exploded.
Friends.
Coworkers.
My sister.
Questions everywhere.
Luca’s PR director wanted a statement.
Luca refused.
“What do we say?” she asked.
“The truth.”
She looked terrified.
“No.”
He corrected himself.
“The version that protects Emma.”
That evening, Luca asked me to meet him at his penthouse.
I almost refused.
Then I remembered the letter.
He opened a safe.
Inside were documents.
One was a copy of my father’s old employment record.
Another showed a payment from Moretti Holdings to Daniel Carter.
The date was two days before Matteo Moretti died.
“Why did your father pay mine?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked closer.
The amount was enormous.
“What was this for?”
“An investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The charitable foundation.”
I stared.
My father had spent years telling us he had worked in ordinary corporate accounting.
He had never mentioned Luca’s family.
Not once.
“I need to find my father’s old records.”
“Your mother?”
“Dead.”
“Any relatives?”
“My aunt.”
“Call her.”
I did.
Aunt Rachel answered after the third ring.
When I asked about my father, she went silent.
“Why are you asking now?”
“Because he worked for the Morettis.”
Another silence.
Then she whispered:
“Your father told me never to talk about them.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid.”
“Of whom?”
“Matteo.”
I looked at Luca.
Rachel continued.
“After Matteo died, Daniel disappeared for six months.”
I frowned.
“That never happened.”
“He told your mother he was going away for work.”
“What did he find?”
“I don’t know.”
She hesitated.
“Wait.”
I heard drawers opening.
Then paper.
“I found this after your mother died.”
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
“From Dad?”
“Yes.”
She read the first line.
Emma,
If you ever meet a Moretti, do not trust him.
My stomach dropped.
Luca’s eyes met mine.
Rachel continued.
But then the letter cut off.
“What else?” I asked.
“That’s all there is.”
“Send me a picture.”
She agreed.
Minutes later, the image arrived.
Luca studied it.
“This handwriting is real.”
“You knew my father?”
“I met him twice.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t remember until now.”
“Why?”
“Because I was twelve.”
I sat down.
For the first time, the fake relationship felt completely irrelevant.
Our lives had been connected before either of us knew it.
The next morning, my office was attacked.
Nothing was stolen.
Nothing was destroyed.
Only one thing had been left on my desk.
A single white envelope.
My name written across it.
Inside was a photograph of my father.
Standing beside Matteo Moretti.
Both men were smiling.
On the back were four words.
HE KNEW THE TRUTH.
Underneath was another sentence.
ASK LUCA.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Emma?”
“Tell me the truth.”
“What happened?”
“My father knew your father.”
“Yes.”
“He investigated him.”
“Yes.”
“Did my father betray him?”
Luca went silent.
“No.”
“Then what did he find?”
Another silence.
“I think he found out my father was being framed.”
I closed my eyes.
“By Victor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then who?”
“I’m going to find out.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Luca.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know whether I can trust you.”
He answered quietly.
“I know.”
For once, there was no command in his voice.
No billionaire confidence.
Only honesty.
“But I want you to,” he said.
May you like
I swallowed.
“So do I.”
