Chapter Twenty-One #2
Men glance up from their tables, conversations stalling for a fraction of a second too long.
Their gazes slide to me, linger, then shift quickly away.
Some look curious. Some assess. Some clearly disapprove.
I am very aware of my body, of my belly, of the fact that I do not belong to their usual scenery.
I lean closer to Lorenzo, my voice low. “Are women allowed in here? Everyone is staring at me.”
He stops mid-stride, utterly at ease. His hand rests at my waist, possessive in the way only confidence can be. He kisses me softly, briefly, with the care of a man who knows he is being watched.
“My woman belongs anywhere I stand,” he says quietly.
Then, for me alone, “And they’re looking because refinement like yours unsettles people who lack it.
” Warmth floods my chest, my stomach tightening in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.
Butterflies explode low in my belly, sharp and dizzying, and for a moment I think I might actually forget how to breathe.
He guides me forward, weaving us through the room with the confidence of someone who belongs.
A ma?tre d’ appears instantly, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his posture deferential without being obvious.
He does not ask for a reservation. He does not question anything.
He simply nods and gestures us toward a table positioned slightly apart from the rest, close enough to observe, far enough to command privacy.
Our table is immaculate. White linen. Crystal glasses already placed. Cutlery aligned with military precision. From here, I can see almost the entire room without being fully exposed, a vantage point that feels intentional.
Lorenzo pulls my chair out for me, his hand briefly brushing my back as I sit. The touch lingers just long enough to remind me that I am not alone in this den of powerful men. He takes the seat across from me, relaxed, composed, completely at ease.
A waiter approaches silently, professional and unreadable, placing menus in front of us.
“Good evening,” he says smoothly. “May I take your drink orders?”
He turns his attention to me first.
I glance around the room, suddenly unsure. “Surprise me,” I say softly. “I’m not really sure what to order.”
His expression softens, the edge melting into something warmer. “Alright,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The waiter shifts his attention fully to Lorenzo.
“We’ll start with the burrata,” Lorenzo says calmly. “Fresh. With heirloom tomatoes and olive oil. Keep it light.”
The waiter nods.
“For the mains,” Lorenzo continues, his voice unhurried, “the wild sea bass. Grilled, minimal seasoning. And the filet, medium-rare for me.” He pauses, then adds, “No raw ingredients on her plate. Nothing too rich.”
I look at him, surprised by how much thought he’s putting into it.
“And to drink?” the waiter asks.
“Sparkling water for her,” Lorenzo replies immediately. “With lemon. And a pomegranate mocktail. No alcohol, no added sugar.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “A Negroni for me.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” the waiter says, already stepping away.
When we’re alone again, I tilt my head slightly. “How exactly did you decide I’d like what you ordered?”
One brow lifts, slow and arrogant, like he’s never been wrong a day in his life.
Truth is, I’m only giving him a hard time. I would’ve eaten anything he put in front of me. Every single thing on that table is exactly what I love. But watching him justify himself? Watching that dangerous confidence flicker just a little?
That’s half the fun.
A faint smile touches Lorenzo’s lips. “I know,” he says. “But I asked myself what would make you feel good after. And what would be kind to you.”
His gaze drops briefly to my belly, not possessive, not calculating. Just protective.
“You’ve been through enough,” he adds quietly. “Tonight is about taking care of you.”
Something tight in my chest loosens at that. “Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just the food.
He nods once, as if it’s nothing, though I know it isn’t. “It’s the least I can do.”
The hum of conversation around us fades into the background as the light above glows warm and steady. For the first time all evening, I realize I’m not nervous anymore. I’m just. . . safe.
As we move through the starters and into the mains, I almost moan at how rich and indulgent everything tastes.
Every bite feels decadent, overwhelming in the best way possible, like my senses have been turned up too high.
Pregnancy hormones are no joke. Everything tastes like heaven lately, and I have absolutely no shame about enjoying it.
When I make a soft sound of pleasure without even realizing it, Lorenzo lifts his brow slowly, his lips curving into something dangerously amused.
He watches me like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
I ignore him completely, pretending I don’t see the look on his face, even though heat creeps up my neck.
Sometimes pregnancy hormones really do bring out the best and the worst in me.
I lift my fork again, ready for another bite, when suddenly it feels like the food gets lodged in my throat.
I freeze.
My gaze locks onto the table beside ours.
Luciano.
My stomach drops.
And he isn’t alone.
Oh my God.
Please don’t tell me the stunning woman seated next to him is his daughter.
She’s beautiful. Effortlessly so. Brown hair, elegant posture, the kind of woman who looks like she belongs in places like this. The kind of woman men look at twice. The kind of woman who would never doubt her place at a table like this.
My appetite disappears instantly.
Lorenzo notices it right away. He always does. His hand comes up, fingers cupping my jaw gently, grounding me as his thumb brushes along my cheek.
“Are you alright, love?” he asks softly.
Then his gaze follows mine.
He sees them.
He lets out an irritated scoff. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath. His jaw tightens. “We can leave if you want,” he adds, immediately softer, his attention snapping back to me.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe. The jealousy claws at me, sharp and humiliating.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, even though it’s not. “We can stay.”
I don’t want to stay. I want to disappear. I want to run. I want to tear my own thoughts out of my head.
Now I can’t enjoy the food. Or the atmosphere. Or even him.
All I can picture is her hands around Lorenzo’s neck. Her body against his. Her place beside him.
“Did you enjoy your birthday?” he asks, clearly trying to steer us back to neutral ground.
The question hits me harder than it should.
Because suddenly I’m wondering if that’s why he was in such a good mood afterward. If that meeting he disappeared to was with Luciano. If he sat across from him, looked at his daughter, and decided she was worth the price.
“Mhm.” I hum, my voice barely steady.
My heart races stupidly. I hate it. I hate how easily it betrays me.
“Serena,” Lorenzo says firmly, his tone shifting. He knows. “Talk to me, baby.”
The word baby nearly breaks me.
I take a sip of the pomegranate mocktail he ordered for me, trying to cool myself down, trying to hide the fact that my chest feels tight.
“Where were you after you left my birthday?” I ask.
The question slips out before I can stop it.
I feel ridiculous immediately. Where he’s been isn’t my business. I told myself I didn’t want him. I told myself I needed distance. And here I am, interrogating him like I have a right to.
“I had a meeting,” he answers calmly.
I hate how short his answers are. I hate that it makes me feel even more exposed.
“With who?” I push, unable to stop myself. I sound like a desperate wife, and I don’t care. I just need confirmation. I need something solid to react to.
“With Luciano.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t lower his voice. His blue eyes stay locked on mine, unflinching, intense, like he knows Luciano can hear him and doesn’t give a damn.
I force my expression into something neutral. Detached.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“The meeting had a positive outcome,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip of his Negroni.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
I let out a small, mocking laugh before I can stop myself. “Pleased with the looks of his daughter?”
Lorenzo’s lips curve slightly. “While I find your jealousy adorable,” he says smoothly, “you know no other woman tops you.”
I try to push the feelings down. The longing. The ache. The way his words still get under my skin.
I’m about to snap back at him when a voice cuts through the space between us.
A masculine voice.
I turn my head.
Luciano is standing at our table.
And beside him, his daughter.
Aurora.
The air shifts instantly.
“Lorenzo, Serena, what a pleasure,” Luciano says, his voice smooth, smug, and entirely too calm.
My stomach twists violently. For a second, I genuinely think I might vomit right here, on white linen and crystal glasses.
“Can we sit?” he adds, already smiling like he owns the answer.
Please say no. Please say no.
“Luciano,” Lorenzo replies, irritation clear in his tone, “I’m sure we don’t want to interrupt your dinner, just as we don’t want ours interrupted.”
It should be enough. It should be a clear dismissal.
“It’ll just take a second,” Luciano says, completely ignoring him as he pulls out a chair. “Sit, Aurora,” he orders his daughter.
Even her name feels like an insult. Beautiful. Soft. Perfect.
She hesitates before sitting, her hands trembling slightly as she lowers herself into the chair. For a brief moment, our eyes meet, and something flickers there. Envy, maybe. Or pity. Or fear. I can’t tell.
“You look wonderful, Serena,” Luciano tells me.
I grip my knife so tightly my fingers ache. It would be so easy. One sharp movement. One decisive second.
“Thank you,” I manage to say instead.
He continues, oblivious or intentionally cruel. “This is my daughter, Aurora.”
Lorenzo goes completely still.
His eyes lock onto Luciano with something dark and lethal, the kind of look that makes men disappear. I can practically feel the violence simmering beneath his skin.
I force a polite smile, even though it feels like my face might crack. “Nice to meet you, Aurora.”
“Nice to meet you too,” she replies quietly.
She sounds trapped. Like me.
And yet, how can I not hate her?
She’s beautiful. Elegant. The kind of woman who belongs at Lorenzo’s side in places like this. Together, they would make sense. A perfect, powerful pair.
My chest tightens as I shift in my seat.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Luciano?” Lorenzo asks coolly, lifting his glass for another sip.
Luciano smiles wider. “I thought I should say hello. Make introductions,” he says, glancing between me and his daughter. “You know, since we’ll be working together. The girls should be aware of each other.”
The words hit like a slap.
The girls.
My vision blurs. Does he really think I would accept this? That I would quietly step aside, reduced to a mistress, while his daughter is paraded as Lorenzo’s bride?
I can barely breathe.
“How do you think this is necessary?” Lorenzo asks flatly.
Luciano answers too quickly. “Today’s meeting was a huge step forward. I assumed this was what you were discussing now. The terms.”
I turn to Lorenzo, betrayal burning through me like acid.
So this is it.
This is why he was in such a good mood. Why everything felt too perfect. He saw her, liked what he saw, and decided to soften the blow with a nice dinner.
I feel sick.
“We’re celebrating Serena’s birthday,” Lorenzo snaps, venom dripping from every word. “Which, no offence, you were not invited to.”
Luciano’s smile falters, just slightly.
“And if you don’t mind,” Lorenzo continues, his voice deadly calm, “I’d prefer you moved three tables away. Immediately.”
Luciano smirks.
Satisfied.
He’s done exactly what he wanted. Ruined the night without lifting a finger.
“Oh, my apologies, Serena,” he says smoothly. “We’ll go.”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, my voice sharper than I expect. “You can stay.”
Aurora looks startled as she begins to rise.
“Both of you,” I add, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “I’ll go. Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for a response.
I push my chair back and walk away before anyone can see me fall apart. I head straight for the restroom, my heels clicking too loudly against the marble floor.
The door shuts behind me, and the tears come instantly.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, mascara threatening to smudge, eyes red, chest heaving.
What a fool I am.
Thinking we could have a happily ever after. Even temporarily.
I barely register the sound of the restroom door opening until a large, familiar presence fills the space.
Lorenzo.
He steps inside, his expression dark, furious.
Good.
Because I’m fucking furious too.
Without a word, he reaches behind him and locks the door.