Chapter 3 - The Price of Silence
Dr. Evans arrived at the estate within twenty minutes.
He was a slender, silver-haired man who had served as the Moretti family physician for three decades. He didn’t ask questions. In a household like this, survival and discretion went hand in hand.
Luca had carried Matteo off to the media room with a set of toy trains, instructing the staff to keep the boy occupied, before returning to the private study where Dr. Evans had set up his portable sterile field under the warm glow of the desk lamp.
“Local anesthetic going in now, Miss Emma,” Dr. Evans warned softly.
The needle pinched sharply, but compared to the throbbing ache of the night before, it was almost a relief. Within moments, my right palm went completely numb.
Luca stood against the heavy mahogany mantle across the room, his arms crossed over his chest, his suit jacket discarded on a leather armchair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate ink of a family crest winding down his left wrist. He watched every movement the doctor made with predatory focus.
With delicate tweezers, Dr. Evans began extracting the shards.
*Clink.*
The first piece of heavy crystal dropped into a stainless steel tray. It was stained dark red.
*Clink.*
Another shard, larger this time, curved like the lip of a drinking glass.
“Waterford crystal,” Dr. Evans remarked quietly, his voice neutral. “Very dense. Luckily, the fractures didn't sever any major tendons, though she was millimeters away from permanent nerve damage to the thumb.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the grind of his teeth from across the room.
“Will she regain full mobility?” Luca asked.
“With proper dressing, antibiotics, and two weeks of rest, yes,” Dr. Evans replied, carefully applying antiseptic before beginning the sutures. “Though she won’t be lifting anything heavier than a book for at least ten days.”
“She won’t be lifting anything at all,” Luca said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Her duties are suspended. Full pay, with a hazard bonus wired to her account this afternoon.”
Panic flared in my chest, breaking through the medicinal haze. “Mr. Moretti, no. Please. If I don't work, I can't stay. Matteo needs me. His routine—”
“Matteo needs a caregiver who isn't being terrorized under my roof,” Luca said bluntly. He walked over, standing directly behind the doctor’s chair, looking down at my bandaged palm as Dr. Evans tied off the final stitch. “You aren't being fired, Emma. You are being protected. There is a difference.”
“I don't need charity, Mr. Moretti.”
“It isn't charity. It’s a debt.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “That glass was the last thing Sophia gave Matteo before the accident. Isabella knew that. She broke it on purpose to hurt my son, and she used your flesh to do it. You bled for something that was my responsibility to guard.”
The raw grief in his voice caught me completely off guard. The public knew Luca Moretti as an iron-fisted titan of shipping and real estate, a ruthless widower who had buried his grief beneath skyscrapers and billion-dollar contracts. But standing here, watching my stitched skin, he looked profoundly human.
Dr. Evans finished bandaging my hand with pristine, sterile gauze, packing away his instruments with practiced quietness. “I’ll leave these antibiotics and pain medication on the tray. Change the dressing twice daily. Mr. Moretti, a word in private?”
Luca nodded, escorting the physician out into the long corridor.
I sat alone in the quiet study, staring at my freshly wrapped hand. My heart was pounding erratically. I should have felt relieved. Luca had believed me. He had defended me. He had thrown Isabella out of the dining room.
Yet, a cold dread pooled in my stomach.
I knew women like Isabella Vance. They didn't slink away in shame; they struck back twice as hard. And while Luca was powerful, Isabella possessed the kind of generational, vindictive wealth that didn't care about collateral damage.
Needing a glass of water to take the pills, I slowly stood up and walked toward the study door. The thick carpet muffled my footsteps as I stepped into the grand hallway.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from the shadowed alcove near the library, grabbing my left arm and yanking me violently into the darkness.
I gasped, nearly crying out, but a manicured hand clamped over my mouth.
“Make a sound, and you won’t live to see tomorrow,” a venomous whisper hissed in my ear.
It was Isabella.
She had changed into a tailored trench coat, her designer sunglasses pushed up into her sleek blonde hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying, but from pure, unadulterated rage. She smelled of expensive floral perfume and nicotine.
She released my mouth, but kept her body pressed close, trapping me against the oak paneling.
“You think you won something this morning, don't you, little girl?” she spat, her voice a razor-sharp blade. “You think because Luca played the white knight, you’re safe?”
“Let me go, Isabella,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my knees. “Luca told you to leave.”
“Luca is temporarily blinded by sentimentality,” she sneered, leaning closer, her teeth bared in an ugly parody of a smile. “He thinks about his dead wife, he feels guilty, and he projects it onto you. But business is business. My father owns forty percent of the coastal port expansion Moretti Enterprises needs to survive this quarter. Luca cannot afford to cast me aside. In three days, I will be back in this house. And you will be gone.”
“Then wait for your father to handle it,” I said coldly. “Why are you lurking in hallways?”
Her fingers dug into my uninjured shoulder, right over the collarbone. “Because I know who you are, Emma Ward. I had my investigator run your background the moment you were hired.”
My breath hitched. The room suddenly seemed to spin.
“You have a nineteen-year-old sister named Lily,” Isabella whispered, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk as she watched my composure crumble. “Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital. Chronic renal failure. She’s currently fourth on the regional donor recipient list, surviving on three rounds of dialysis a week. Dialysis that costs twelve thousand dollars a month. Twelve thousand dollars that *Luca Moretti’s* generous nanny salary pays for.”
“Don’t you touch her,” I breathed, the blood roaring in my ears. “Don't you dare touch my sister!”
“I won't have to touch her,” Isabella whispered silkily. “My family sits on the board of trustees at Saint Jude’s. One phone call from my father, and Lily’s private room becomes a general ward. One phone call, and her priority status on the donor registry gets flagged for administrative review. She’ll wait years for a kidney, Emma. And we both know she doesn't have years.”
Tears of pure, helpless rage stung the backs of my eyes. “What do you want?”
Isabella stepped back, smoothing down the lapels of her immaculate coat. Her smile was utterly terrifying.
“Tonight, you are going to pack your bags,” Isabella instructed coldly. “You will write Luca a note explaining that you were overwhelmed, that you lied about the glass out of spite, and that you are resigning effective immediately. You will disappear from this city, and you will never contact him or Matteo again.”
“And if I don’t?”
Isabella tilted her head, her eyes devoid of warmth. “Then tomorrow morning, your sister loses her dialysis slot. The choice is yours, Miss Ward. Let's see how much you love another woman’s child when your own sister is gasping for life.”
May you like
She turned on her heel and strode down the corridor, her trench coat billowing behind her like a shroud, leaving me alone in the dark alcove, trembling so hard I could barely breathe.
***
