Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Was Never Allowed to Be a Bride|
Lorenzo stared at the photograph until his phone screen dimmed.
Isabella.
His baby sister.
The little girl who used to sleep outside his bedroom when thunderstorms frightened her.
The teenager who had cried against his chest after their father died.
The woman who'd helped Amelia choose her wedding flowers.
Now she was somewhere Victor Moretti controlled.
Because Lorenzo had trusted the wrong man.
He called his head of security.
"Marco."
"Boss?"
"Confirm Isabella's location through independent sources. Quietly."
Marco hesitated.
"Is something wrong?"
"Yes."
Lorenzo looked toward Amelia.
"And I want you to verify whether her phone has been compromised."
"Understood."
He ended the call.
Amelia stood near the wall, still wrapped in his coat.
Her eyes followed every movement.
"He's going to know you called someone."
Lorenzo nodded.
"Possibly."
"You don't understand."
"Then help me."
She shook her head.
"He has people everywhere."
"I know."
"No, Lorenzo. You don't."
Her voice broke.
"He knew where I bought groceries yesterday. He knew which diner let me work for cash. He knew I hadn't eaten since morning."
Lorenzo's chest tightened.
She had been hiding.
Working.
Starving.
While he had spent fourteen days planning revenge.
"Amelia..."
She looked away.
He remembered their last night together.
She'd been unusually quiet.
He'd asked whether she was nervous about the wedding.
She smiled.
Told him every bride was nervous.
Then she kissed him and said she'd see him at the altar.
He had believed her.
He should have noticed the way she held him.
As though she was memorizing the feeling.
"Did Victor hurt you the night before our wedding?" he asked.
She went still.
For several seconds, she didn't answer.
Then she whispered:
"He wanted to make sure I understood."
Lorenzo felt sick.
He looked toward the street.
Snow continued falling.
A delivery truck moved slowly through the intersection.
The world kept going.
As though nothing terrible had happened.
"Did you see a doctor?"
Amelia shook her head.
"Not at first."
"Amelia."
"I was afraid."
He nodded.
He wouldn't ask her to explain that fear again.
Instead, he said:
"Would you let me arrange medical care with someone you choose?"
She studied him.
"Someone Victor doesn't control?"
"Yes."
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
The small agreement felt more important than any contract Lorenzo had ever signed.
An hour later, Amelia sat inside a private medical clinic accompanied by a female physician.
Lorenzo waited outside.
He didn't enter.
Didn't demand details.
Didn't tell anyone how to treat her.
He simply waited.
When the doctor emerged, she spoke only with Amelia's consent.
The burn was healing, but it required follow-up care.
The physician also recommended support for the emotional trauma Amelia had experienced.
Lorenzo nodded.
He could arrange protection.
Money.
Transportation.
But he couldn't undo what had happened.
And for the first time, he understood that revenge would not automatically make Amelia whole.
Later, they sat in a quiet office at the clinic.
Amelia held a paper cup of tea.
Lorenzo remained across the room.
He wanted to sit beside her.
To take her hand.
To tell her everything would be fine.
But he had already made too many decisions without asking.
So he waited.
Finally, Amelia spoke.
"Victor said something strange."
Lorenzo looked up.
"What?"
"He said your father promised him something before he died."
Lorenzo frowned.
"Money?"
"No."
"Property?"
She shook her head.
"A person."
The room went still.
Lorenzo stared.
"What?"
Amelia looked toward the window.
"He said your father made an agreement involving a future marriage."
Lorenzo's stomach tightened.
"Whose marriage?"
She slowly looked at him.
"Ours."
Silence.
Then Lorenzo laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because the idea was absurd.
His father had died six years earlier.
Lorenzo had met Amelia only three years ago.
"That's impossible."
She nodded.
"That's what I thought."
He folded his arms.
"What exactly did Victor say?"
Amelia swallowed.
"He said our relationship wasn't an accident."
Lorenzo stared.
"He said someone arranged for us to meet."
The words settled between them.
Lorenzo remembered the night he first saw Amelia.
A charity auction.
A ballroom filled with wealthy strangers.
She was standing beside a painting, arguing with an older gentleman about its history.
Lorenzo had been amused.
Then fascinated.
He asked her name.
She told him to wait until she finished proving her point.
He fell in love a little that night.
Could someone have arranged it?
Perhaps.
But nobody had arranged the years afterward.
The mornings.
The laughter.
The way she held his hand when nightmares woke him.
Lorenzo looked at her.
"Even if someone wanted us to meet, nobody made me love you."
Amelia's eyes filled.
For a moment, she looked like the woman he remembered.
Then her phone vibrated.
She stared at the screen.
Her expression changed.
Lorenzo noticed.
"What is it?"
She slowly turned the phone toward him.
A message.
ASK LORENZO WHY HIS FATHER REALLY DIED.
Beneath it was a photograph.
Antonio Bianchi.
Lorenzo's father.
Standing beside Victor Moretti.
And between them was a young woman Lorenzo had never seen.
Amelia looked at him.
"Do you know her?"
Lorenzo stared.
The young woman had dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A familiar smile.
He had seen that face before.
In an old photograph hidden inside his father's desk.
Then he whispered:
"That's my mother."
Amelia froze.
"Lorenzo, your mother died when you were ten."
May you like
He looked at her.
"That's what I was told."
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