Chapter 25 Uninvited Guest #2
She shoved at his chest with a palm, scowling. “Let go of me!”
Lorenzo chuckled under his breath and finally loosened his hold, backing away as she wiped her cheek furiously with the back of her hand.
Then, Lorenzo’s gaze sliced through the room, locking straight on Xander like a heat-seeking missile.
He stormed toward the door, his footsteps loud, sharp, each one echoing his irritation.
Xander’s confident grin faded the second their eyes met. His entire posture deflated.
“Uh—right. I’ll just… go.”
Clutching the massive bouquet like a shield, he turned on his heel and bolted out the door without another word, nearly tripping over the threshold in his rush.
The door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a gavel hitting wood.
Lorenzo groaned under his breath and dragged a hand down his face, frustration carved into every line of his expression. He turned slowly back toward Krystal, shoulders tight, and then walked back to her.
From the pocket of his slacks, he pulled out a small black velvet box. His fingers lingered on it for a second before he offered it to her.
Krystal didn’t take it.
Instead, she stared at him, arms crossed. “Why do you keep showing up for no reason?”
“Do I need a reason to make you my wife again?”
She flinched, but recovered quickly, her voice steady and clipped. “Who told you I want to be your wife again? This is called stalking!”
He grinned, unfazed, stepping closer, the box still in hand. “Krystal—”
“I don’t care what you have to say,” she cut him off, placing a hand on his chest to block him. “The time to show affection was long ago. That window has closed. Please leave.”
She turned and walked toward her bedroom.
“Krystal, wait—just try this dish I made for you,” he tried, following her.
But she didn’t stop.
The bedroom door shut in his face with a loud thud.
He stood there for a second, lips pressed together in a hard line, disappointment written across his face. His fingers tightened around the small gift box, the pressure whitening his knuckles.
After a beat, he turned and began walking toward the exit.
Darren was leaning against the living room wall now, arms crossed, watching him quietly. He hadn't said a word during the argument—until now.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Lorenzo paused, halfway to the door. He turned slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Darren still shirtless, still irritating.
“How much would it take to make you stop bothering Krystal?” Darren asked, tone flat, eyes locked onto his.
Lorenzo blinked in disbelief—then let out a short, humorless laugh. He turned to face him fully, pocketing the velvet box with an almost lazy grace.
“I’ll give you ten million,” he said casually. “No—forget that. I’ll give you a hundred million. Or better yet, name your price. How much do you want to walk away and never show your face near her again?”
Darren smirked, amused but not impressed. He stepped forward slowly, standing straighter. His voice dropped, calm and razor-sharp.
“Who said I want your money?” He tilted his head. “Do you really think it’s that easy to buy me off?”
Darren straightened, stepping closer.
“I don’t get it,” Darren continued. “You were desperate to divorce her before. Now you’re suddenly running after her like a madman. Why the change?”
Lorenzo’s jaw clenched. “Because back then, I didn’t understand her. I was pushed into responsibilities I wasn’t ready for.”
Darren gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Don’t you find it strange, Mr. Moretti? After all the ways you hurt her these past years… why do you think she’d stay now?”
His voice dropped, slower now, more personal. “Back then, I let her stay with you for two years because I thought that’s what she wanted. I wanted her to be happy. But I can’t let her repeat the same mistake. Not again.”
Lorenzo’s eyes darkened, a dangerous glint behind them.
“I told you,” he said, each word sharp, measured, “I was forced to make that decision. But I’m not giving her up again. Not for anyone.”
He cast one last look at the untouched lunchbox still sitting on the table—then turned and walked out the front door without another word.
The place fell quiet again.
A quiet click echoed as Darren locked the front door behind Lorenzo and disappeared into his room, the hallway swallowing his shadow.
Several seconds passed.
Then—another soft click.
Krystal’s bedroom door creaked open. She stepped out barefoot, her oversized t-shirt brushing her thighs, her face unreadable. The light in the living room cast soft shadows along her arms as she walked slowly across the floor.
She stopped in front of the lunchbox.
Her eyes flicked to the door, still closed and quiet. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
And then, hesitantly, her fingers reached out.
She popped open the lid.
Inside—fried rice, slightly clumped from too much oil. A few meatballs, unevenly shaped and browned a little too much on one side. A folded omelet, slightly overcooked on the edges and torn in the middle.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t pretty.
But it smelled like effort.
Krystal swallowed hard, something tightening behind her ribs.
She stared at it in silence for a long beat before snapping the lid shut with a sharp motion.
“What’s he trying to prove with this pity act?” she muttered under her breath, trying to push away the ache rising in her chest.
She turned to walk away but her feet slowed. Froze.
Her mind drifted—uninvited—back to the way Lorenzo’s hands looked earlier. Raw. Red. Angry welts blooming across his skin. Some areas looked deeper, the skin broken. And none of it had been bandaged.
“So many burns…” she muttered, arms crossing tightly around herself. “He didn’t even bother with medicine. Came all the way here like that. Always so dramatic.”
But her voice didn’t carry the anger she wanted it to. Just tight frustration—and a quiet flicker of something else.
Her eyes returned to the lunchbox, and she stared it down like it had offended her. A tense, wordless standoff. Seconds ticked by.
Then suddenly, she snatched the box off the table, shoved it closed, and rushed to the door.
She yanked it open and sprinted down the hallway, the box clutched to her chest. Her pulse roared in her ears as she slammed the elevator button and waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Ding.
The doors opened, and she stepped in, her reflection jittering in the silver walls.
She barely let the elevator reach the ground floor before she dashed out, spilling into the quiet street, breath catching in her throat. The night was cool, calm, and empty.
Her eyes darted wildly across the sidewalk and parking lot.
“Did he already leave?” she whispered to herself, a flicker of disappointment creeping across her face.
She was about to turn back when something moved.
From the shadows behind a parked van, a familiar figure stepped forward.
Jim.
The same man who had tried to run her down.
His face twisted in a grin. His hand gripped a hammer.
Krystal’s heart plummeted.
She stumbled back a step, voice caught in her throat. Panic thundered through her.
She spun on her heel, ready to run, but—
He was faster.
His footsteps slammed into the pavement behind her as he charged.
The hammer raised.
Her scream never came.
Because before the hammer could fall—
THUD!
A roar shattered the air.
Another loud crash. A grunt. Then something heavy hitting the pavement.
Krystal turned—eyes wide in fear.
Lorenzo.
He was on Jim in a blur of movement, fury pouring out of him like a storm. His fists collided with Jim’s body, each punch laced with rage, each breath like a growl. The hammer clattered away, forgotten.
“Lorenzo!” she gasped, her voice finally returning.
Jim tried to fight back, but Lorenzo didn’t give him room to breathe. Blow after blow, each hit more violent than the last. The sharp crunch of bone echoed through the alley.
“Stop!” she shouted. “He’s down—Lorenzo, stop!”
But Lorenzo couldn’t hear her. He was somewhere else—somewhere dark. His knuckles were red, his face cut from the scuffle, but he didn’t stop until Jim’s body finally went limp beneath him.
Chest heaving, Lorenzo slowly pushed himself off the man.
And that’s when it happened.
Jim—barely conscious, blood dripping from his face—grabbed the hammer one last time and swung .
Crack.
The sound was sickening.
The hammer struck the back of Lorenzo’s head.
“Lorenzo!” Krystal screamed, running to him as he stumbled forward.
His knees buckled. His body swayed. His hand went to his head, and then—
He collapsed.
Krystal caught him just in time, her knees hitting the pavement beneath his weight. Her arms cradled him tightly, panic slicing through her like ice.
“Lorenzo?! Lorenzo!”
His eyes fluttered, blood soaking her hands as she cradled the back of his head. The warm stickiness coated her fingers—too much, too fast.
Her breath caught as she whispered his name again and again.
But he didn’t answer.
Only his ragged breathing and the soft hum of the streetlights filled the silence now.