Stupid question. I realize it the second it leaves my mouth.
She presses her lips together. “My mother chose my lessons. My father approved them. I was expected to focus on what was appropriate.”
“What was appropriate?”
“Embroidery. Piano. Language studies. Hosting etiquette. Charity work.”
All chosen for her. All designed to make her useful… and quiet. It makes my jaw ache.
I try again. “And outside of that? Friends? Hobbies?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture folds inward.
“I didn’t… go out much,” she admits. “My schedule was managed. My outings monitored. My friends were… mostly cousins.”
So no friends. No normal childhood. No independence. Just a life lived under surveillance. I decide to switch tactics.
“What did you study in school?”
“Business,” she answers immediately. A small tilt of her mouth like she wants to smile. “And finance.”
I stop chewing. That’s not a docile socialite education. That’s real. Useful. Valuable. A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Good.”
She startles a little, like she’s not used to praise coming without strings attached.
“Good?” she repeats softly.
“Yes. Very good.” I sit back in my chair, assessing her with new eyes. “Business and finance are exactly what I need today.”
Her brows knit in confusion.
“Finish eating,” I tell her. “Then get dressed.”
“Dressed?”
“Yes. You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
I push back my chair, standing with a certainty I haven’t felt since dawn. “The phone call I got this morning? You’re going to help me handle it.”
Her lips part in shock. “But… but I don’t know how.”
“You will.” My voice softens—just barely. “You’re a Moretti now. You’re capable. And whether you realize it or not…” I hold her gaze until she finally lifts her eyes to mine. “…you’re exactly who I want beside me today.”
Her breath catches. And for the first time since I met her, I see it—a flicker of something behind her eyes. Notfear. Not obedience. Something warmer. Something uncertain. Something alive. A spark.
She disappears into the bedroom to get ready while I stand in the hall, rolling my cuffs and trying not to think about my wife changing in the other room.
When she steps out, I feel something settle low in my chest. She looks neat. Polished. Perfect. Too perfect. And she tugs at the hem of her shirt—once, twice—before she folds her hands in front of her like she’s trying to hide the gesture.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her voice is soft but steady.
I lead her through the foyer and out to the circular drive where the SUV is already waiting. Another pulls up behind it, my men keeping close enough to intervene, far enough to give space.
