Chapter 7
Elora
"What did you just say?"
Maya pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, expression dead serious. "I asked if you let that man of yours clean up after your parents."
"No." I shook my head. "I even blocked Brenda. You're not starting to doubt me too, are you?"
She rolled her eyes and tucked a strand of short hair behind her ear. "I'm not doubting you. I'm making sure you're not being kept in the dark." She jerked her chin toward the boutique ahead. "Come on. Let's go inside."
I followed her into the shop. The air smelled like fabric and sickly-sweet perfume, making my temples throb. Maya dropped her black shopping bag on the counter and pulled me toward the high stools by the window.
"Drink some coffee first. You look like you just crawled out of a grave."
"Thanks. Really comforting."
"I'm not here to coddle you. I'm here to tell you the truth."
"Go ahead."
"I saw Eleanor last week. In SoHo." Maya pulled out her phone, swiped a few times, and handed it to me. "Wearing the latest collection. That watch on her wrist could cover half my rent. She was with Richard and Brenda. They went into a private bank together."
The screen showed a blurry photo. Eleanor's blonde hair caught the light like a streak of gold. She held Brenda's arm while Richard followed behind, clutching a document folder.
"A private bank?" I frowned. "What were they doing there?"
"Loan." Maya took back her phone. "A big one. Using Lucien Genovese's name as collateral."
"The manager treated them like royalty. Tea, water, bowing and scraping." Maya's voice went cold. "How did they get Lucien's business card, his seal, or anything that proves 'Genovese family backing'?"
Ice crept up from my feet.
"Maybe..." I struggled to speak. "Maybe Lucien agreed to it?"
"You believe that?"
I didn't. I stared down at the foam on my coffee. I thought I'd cut ties with my family, but they'd turned around and used Lucien's name to stuff their faces.
"How could they dare..."
"You know what your family's like. Are you really surprised?"
I tried to smile. Failed.
"Elora, are you okay?"
I drew a breath. "I'm fine."
"Elora." Maya's voice softened, almost worried.
"I'm not trying to scare you. But Lucien Genovese—he's complicated.
His family, his business, those men in black suits.
You're his wife now. Doesn't matter if it's real or not, that's what people think.
Your parents use his name, and when it's time to settle accounts, it all comes back to you. "
I looked at her, throat dry.
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying," Maya grabbed my hand, her palm rough and warm, "you need to figure out what he's doing. Not because you doubt him—to protect yourself. You just crawled out of that mess. Don't let them drag you back in."
Maya's words rippled through me like waves of unease.
"I will," I finally said.
She squeezed my hand hard. "Good. You promised. I'm holding you to it. Come on, one more shop with me. Then you need to go home and face your husband."
We wandered until three. Maya bought a studded leather skirt. I picked up a bottle of agarwood essential oil—the last orange blossom one hadn't worked. When we parted on the corner, she hugged me so hard my ribs ached.
"Call me if anything happens. I'm on twenty-four-seven. Even if you're running from assassins at three in the morning, I'll show up with a shotgun."
"Thanks, Maya."
"Don't be stupid. We're beyond that." She turned toward the subway. "Elora, remember—don't give all of yourself away. Keep half for you."
I watched her disappear around the corner. On my way back, I saw Julian.
He'd come to my shop a couple of weeks ago. Loved my oils. I hadn't expected to see him here.
He sat on a bench across the street, a bouquet of roses resting on his knees. The petals were wilting at the edges. He stared down, fingers absently plucking at a leaf, looking devastated.
I hesitated, then crossed the street.
"Julian?"
He looked up. For a moment his eyes lit up. Then they dimmed.
"Elora." He forced a smile. "Hey."
"Are you... waiting for someone?"
He looked down at the roses, mouth twisting into something bitter.
"I was," he said. "She didn't show."
I sat down next to him, leaving a polite distance between us. He said nothing, pulling the roses closer.
"I thought..." He started, voice barely there. "I thought she'd at least come. Even to turn me down, she should've done it in person. But she didn't even show up."
I looked at Julian's profile—clean, bookish. But now his eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched tight, radiating a kind of shattered fragility.
"Maybe try reaching out again?"
"No." He smiled bitterly. "If she didn't come, I already know the answer."
A breeze scattered a petal onto his knee.
"Maybe she just... maybe she doesn't know how good you are."
"You don't even know me. How would you know I'm good?"
"Yes, I do." I shook my head. "Remember the first time you came to my shop? There was a stray cat at the door. It was raining. You held an umbrella over it. You're gentle. If you're that kind to a cat, imagine how you'd treat someone you care about. She didn't see it. That's her loss."
He stared at me for a long time. Long enough to make me uncomfortable.
Then he held out the bouquet.
"Take them."
"What?"
"Too good to waste in a trash can." He smiled. "You take them. At least... at least someone will appreciate them."
I waved him off. "I can't—"
"Elora." He gently interrupted. "Consider it thanks for sitting here with me today. Please?"
I looked at the roses. Then at him. Sunlight glinted in his eyes, soft and broken. My heart softened.
"...Okay." I took them. "Thank you."
"No, thank you." He stood. "I should go. See you at the shop tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
He turned and disappeared into the crowd. I took a cab back to the estate. When I arrived, Enzo was directing a delivery truck. He nodded when he saw me get out, his gaze lingering on the roses for just a second.
I clutched them tighter and hurried inside. Lucien stood in the center of the living room, talking to Rocco. When he saw me, his eyes went to my face first. Then down. To the roses.
"You're back."
"Yeah." I shifted the roses behind my back. "These... I just picked them up."
Rocco immediately dropped his gaze, pretending to study his paperwork.
Lucien walked toward me and snatched the bouquet away.
"Picked them up? What flower shop wraps roses in old newspaper?"
"A street vendor. It was cheap."
"Cheap enough for you to carry them all the way home?"
I opened my mouth to explain, but the words stuck in my throat. How could I explain? That a guy whose confession got rejected gave them to me? That I felt sorry for him so I took them?
Would Lucien believe that?
"I..." I looked away, guilt creeping in. "I'll go put them in water."
I grabbed the bouquet back and headed for the kitchen. His gaze burned into my spine, making my back prickle.
That night Lucien came home early. He didn't acknowledge me. Just walked straight to the bathroom. Water ran for twenty minutes. Then the mattress dipped as he lay down, his back to me.
I stared at the back of his head, wanting to say something, but the air felt like a transparent wall separating us.
"Lucien."
"What?"
"Those flowers..."
"Go to sleep." His voice was muffled in the pillow. "We'll talk tomorrow."
I spotted Lucien's wallet on the vanity and decided to return it to his study.
But as I picked it up, it slipped. Hit the carpet. Everything spilled out. What caught my eye was a photo that slid from the inner compartment.
In the photo, Lucien looked young. White shirt, sitting in the driver's seat of a convertible.
Next to him was a girl—light blonde hair, white dress, soft smile.
Her arm draped over his shoulder, fingers resting naturally on his chest. Lucien's face was turned toward her, a slight curve to his lips.
I'd never seen Lucien look like that.
I flipped it over. A line of small text.
Serena & Lucien. Summer 2009, Lake Como.
My fingers went cold.
Serena. Natalie had mentioned her name before. I thought she was the daughter of some prominent family, but I hadn't expected...
The girl in the photo was elegant, beautiful, poised. She matched Lucien perfectly.
I looked up at my reflection. Oversized beige sweater, hair messily tied back, red sleep creases still on my face.
That old, familiar inadequacy crawled up from my feet like vines, wrapping around my heart.
The door opened. I scrambled to shove the photo back into the wallet, moving too fast. The corner sliced my finger, leaving a thin red line.
Lucien stood in the doorway, holding a dark blue box. He looked at me. Then at the wallet on the floor. His brow furrowed.
"You went through my things?"
"No!" I stood, holding out the wallet. "It fell. I tried to pick it up and—"
I stopped. My eyes landed on the blue box.
It wasn't large. Tied with a silver ribbon. A line of script embossed on top—a brand I knew. They made artisan candles. One called "Midnight Library"—old paper, leather, a hint of amber. I could never find it.
Lucien followed my gaze, then held out the box.
"For you. You've been wanting it."
I took the box, hands trembling as I untied the ribbon. Inside was a matte black glass jar. The label read: Midnight Library, Batch No. 47.
"How did you know..."
"You wrote it seventeen times in your notebook. Every time you turn to that page, you sigh."
"Thank you." My voice came out small. "I... I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything." He stepped closer, taking the wallet from my hand and slipping it into his jacket. "You saw the photo?"
My chest tightened.
"I..."
"Serena." He looked at me, no evasion. "Carlo's daughter. We knew each other as kids."
"Just... knew each other?"
"What do you want it to be?"
I wanted them to be nothing. I wanted that smile in the photo to mean nothing. But I couldn't say it.
"Lucien," I clutched the candle, asking carefully, "have you ever... loved anyone before?"