18. Victoria
VICTORIA
The clinic wing lies at the far edge of the main mansion, tucked away from the busy employee section near the laboratory.
Serene and secluded, it offers a welcome sense of privacy while remaining very much a part of the house itself.
Its position within the estate places it near some of the quieter guest accommodations, lending the area an atmosphere of discretion and comfort rather than clinical necessity.
Everything in my life seems to be a compromise lately.
I stand near the centre of the room while two maids unpack the last of my belongings.
The sight should feel absurd.
Three weeks ago, I was teaching chemistry, fighting with department heads over funding, and grading lab reports that students had clearly finished sometime after midnight.
Now two strangers arrange my life inside a suite in Lorenzo Nero’s mansion.
A life I never chose.
When I arrived here, I had nothing except a torn wedding dress and a memory in disfunction.
Now, there are clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Dresses folded neatly in drawers. Shoes lined up beneath them.
Things that belong to me.
Or at least things I’m expected to claim as mine.
Neither woman speaks much. They move quietly through the suite, arranging books on the shelves, placing toiletries in the bathroom, and hanging dresses inside polished walnut cabinets.
Every so often, one of them glances at me before quickly looking away.
Curiosity.
Not fear or hostility.
The kind people carry when they know there’s a story but haven’t been allowed to hear it.
When the final drawer slides shut, the older maid offers me a polite smile.
“Anything else, Miss Vitale?”
Miss.
The title catches me off guard. Not prisoner. Not hostage. Miss.
“No,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
The women nod and disappear into the hallway.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Silence settles over the room.
Then, I allow myself to actually look around.
The suite is larger than my apartment back in Chicago. Tall windows overlook the estate grounds. A fireplace occupies one wall. Bookshelves line another. Afternoon sunlight spills across polished floors, catching on expensive furniture that somehow manages to look elegant instead of excessive.
It’s beautiful.
The realisation makes me uncomfortable.
For a moment, the room disappears.
I can practically hear Olivia’s voice.
You need to get laid, Victoria.
The memory hits harder than expected.
Olivia has no idea where I am.
For all she knows, I’ve vanished.
The police are probably still searching.
My colleagues are probably still asking questions.
And I know Elsie will be disappointed too.
The thought almost makes me smile.
She’ll be furious when I tell her I nearly lost my life.
That’s assuming I ever get the chance to tell her.
The thought steals the faint smile from my lips.
Nothing about my future is guaranteed anymore.
My entire life continues somewhere beyond these walls while I remain trapped inside Lorenzo Nero’s world.
My attention shifts toward the table near the window.
Fresh flowers sit waiting there.
White roses.
Perfectly arranged.
I stare at them longer than necessary.
Nobody accidentally places flowers in a room.
Somebody chooses them.
Somebody remembers.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, that unsettles me more than the armed guards patrolling the estate.
I tear my gaze away from the flowers and force out a slow breath.
The room is beautiful.
Too quiet.
If I spend another minute alone with my thoughts, I’ll start asking questions I don’t want answered.
The laboratory suddenly seems like the better option.
At least chemistry still makes sense.
I press the buzzer beside the door.
Less than a minute later, two guards appear.
“I’d like to return to the lab for my shift,” I say.
“Of course, Miss Vitale.”
They’ve already been briefed about my schedule between the mansion and the laboratory.
One nods, and the other opens the door.
I follow them into the corridor.
A strange restlessness eases with every step.
A few minutes later, I push through the laboratory doors.
The familiar scent of chemicals and filtered air hits me instantly.
Salvatore looks up from his workstation, and relief flashes across his face.
“Thank God.”
I blink.
“What happened?”
He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Three chemists spent the entire morning arguing about your filtration process.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Who won?”
“You.”
“Good.”
His expression darkens.
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
I laugh softly and move toward my station.
The room settles back into its familiar rhythm of glassware, measurements, and calculations—the steady language of chemistry, predictable and reliable, unlike almost everything else in my life.
For several hours, work consumes my attention completely as I plan a possible next batch if his feedback is yes.
Numbers replace thoughts.
Processes replace emotions.
I stop thinking about flowers, Olivia, Lorenzo, and everything else waiting beyond the laboratory doors.
Then a shadow falls across my workbench.
The shift in atmosphere happens immediately.
Conversation slows.
Movements become more careful.
The room itself seems to grow quieter.
I already know who it is before I look up.
Lorenzo.
He stands beside my station in a dark suit, one hand resting loosely in his pocket.
Nobody announces him. Nobody needs to. His presence carries its own gravity, and several employees immediately find reasons to be elsewhere.
“Professor.”
The title sends an irritating warmth through me.
“Don.”
His gaze drifts across the reports spread across the table.
Then the latest test results.
Then back to me.
For several seconds, he says nothing.
He simply studies the figures.
Studies me.
The silence should be uncomfortable.
Instead, it feels strangely deliberate.
Like he prefers people to fill it themselves.
Eventually, he speaks.
“Your product passed.”
I notice the choice of words.
Unfortunately.
“So?”
One corner of his mouth twitches.
Lorenzo studies the laboratory for a moment before turning his attention to me.
“I want production increased.”
I look up from my notes.
“By how much?”
“Triple the quantity we discussed.”
For a second, I think I’ve misheard him.
“Triple?”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Can it be done?”
I glance around the laboratory automatically, my mind already moving through calculations. Equipment. Personnel. Supply chains. Space.
It will complicate things.
It will create problems.
But none that can’t be solved.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That’s all.
No explanation.
Just a decision that has already been made.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
Lorenzo doesn’t justify his orders. He issues them.
I close my notebook.
“It’ll take some adjustments.”
“I know.”
The answer is immediate.
As though he never doubted it for a second.
A faint silence settles between us.
His gaze remains on mine, steady and unreadable.
His expression flickers.
Approval perhaps.
Or satisfaction.
With Lorenzo, the difference is impossible to tell.
Around us, the laboratory continues its work. Equipment hums. Technicians move between stations. Conversations rise and fall in low voices.
Yet I become strangely aware of how close he is standing.
Aware of the scent of tobacco and cedar.
Aware that several people in the laboratory are suddenly finding reasons to focus very intently on anything except us.
Most annoyingly?—
Aware that I don’t entirely dislike it.
The realisation irritates me immediately.
Lorenzo says nothing.
His gaze remains fixed on mine.
Long enough for me to wonder what exactly he’s looking for or why I care.
Eventually, he gives a single nod.
The matter is settled.
The quantity will increase, and the laboratory will adapt.
He is satisfied with whatever conclusion he reaches, turning his attention elsewhere as though the outcome had never been in doubt.