Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Elena
Midnight. A warm rush surged between my thighs, yanking me from the haze of half-sleep. I froze, staring down at the soaked sheets, my heart hammering in my throat. "No, no, no... not now."
My trembling fingers fumbled for my phone on the nightstand and hit Marco's number.
"Elena?" His voice picked up on the first ring.
"Marco!" Panic cracked my voice. "I think... I think my water broke."
"Don't move. I'm coming."
The call ended. Within minutes, my door burst open and Marco charged in, still in his pajamas. One look at me, and his face went dead serious. He rushed to the closet, grabbed the hospital bag I'd packed weeks ago, then bent down to carefully lift me up.
"Hold on tight," he commanded softly, his voice steady despite the veins bulging in his neck.
"Marco, it's only eight months!" My teeth chattered as I gripped his shoulders. "Isn't it too early? What if the baby—"
"She'll be fine," he cut me off, taking the stairs two at a time. "I'll make sure she's fine. You'll both be fine."
He settled me gently in the backseat, wrapped me in a blanket, then raced around to the driver's side. The car roared in protest as we tore into the silent streets of midnight Tuscany.
The pain hit fast and brutal. The first contraction felt like a giant fist crushing my uterus. I screamed, my nails digging deep into my palms.
"Breathe, Elena." Marco's voice carried from the front seat. One hand gripped the wheel while the other adjusted the rearview mirror to keep eyes on me. We flew faster, streetlights blurring past the windows.
Sweat soaked my hair, plastering it to my forehead. "It hurts so much!"
"I know, I know," he said, watching me through the mirror. Those usually gentle brown eyes were filled with worry now. "I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. Just hold on. We're almost there."
His voice was my anchor in the storm of pain. I locked onto his eyes in the mirror, trying to draw strength from them.
But then another contraction hit, even more vicious. The agony crashed over me like a tsunami, and in the chaos of my sinking consciousness, I grabbed onto the only lifeline I could find—those deep green eyes, that man who'd whispered in my ear with that low, magnetic voice, "You belong to me."
"Igor..." I whimpered his name.
In the mirror, I saw Marco's expression freeze. But he said nothing, just floored the gas pedal.
The next dozen hours at the community hospital were pure hell. The delivery room was stark white and freezing. Every contraction felt like someone taking a rusty knife to my spine, over and over. I gripped the bed rails until my knuckles went white. Nurses bustled around me.
"Push!" the older nurse shouted.
I pushed with everything I had, my throat releasing sounds that didn't seem human.
The edges of my vision went black, consciousness floating in and out with the pain.
In that extreme agony, only one image filled my mind—those deep green eyes.
That bastard who gave me beautiful dreams, then smashed them with his own hands.
"Push! The baby's almost here!" The doctor's voice echoed from somewhere far away.
I closed my eyes, Igor's face filling my head. I channeled all the betrayal, all the heartbreak, all the rage into one final surge of strength and pushed.
"Waaah!"
A loud, clear cry reached my ears. I collapsed against the pillow, completely drained.
The nurse placed that tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle on my chest. She was so small, but so warm. I looked down at her, and she stopped crying. She had fine, soft blonde hair and curious blue eyes that blinked up at me.
My God. She was my daughter.
The delivery room door opened, and Marco walked in, looking haggard. His gaze fell on the baby in my arms.
"She's beautiful, Elena." He approached the bed, his voice hoarse.
I stroked her soft cheek. Suddenly, she pouted, that stubborn expression... way too much like Igor. That bastard—even thousands of miles away, he had to remind me I could never truly escape him.
Marco sat in the chair beside the bed. He stared at the baby for a long time, his expression complicated. Then he looked up, like he'd made some kind of decision.
"Elena." His voice was quiet. "I love you."
My breath caught.
"I love you," he repeated, his voice deeper. "I've loved you since we were eight years old, in that damn slum, when I first saw you fighting those older kids."
My brain went blank. I'd always seen him as a brother, as family.
He kept talking, a hint of self-mockery in his voice. "I watched you fall for that Russian bastard. I watched you break, and I broke too. I've been waiting for you, Elena. Waiting for you to look back at me just once."
He reached out to touch my cheek, but stopped mid-air.
"Give me a chance." His tone turned pleading. "I'll raise Stella like she's my own daughter. I'll give you and her the best life. I don't need you to love me right away. I just need you to give me a chance."
I looked at him. Marco Bernardi. Handsome, gentle, a doctor who managed to stay decent despite running in Italian Mafia circles. Any woman would go crazy for him. But I wasn't those women.
Stella let out a tiny whimper in my arms. I looked down—she was scrunching up her little face, obviously hungry.
"Marco, my heart is dead." I forced the words out, saying each one carefully. "On that Christmas night, my heart died with the man I loved. What's left in my body now is just an empty shell. I can't give you the love you want."
He watched me in silence, the color slowly draining from his face. Those usually smiling lips pressed into a hard line. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and slowly stood up.
"I understand," he said quietly.
He didn't push it. He just bent down, pressed a cold kiss to my forehead, then turned and left the room.
I knew I'd hurt him. But lies were crueler than truth. Igor had taught me that.
After leaving the hospital, I faced the most practical problem—money.
I'd been selling my handmade crafts at the local market, but the income was wildly unstable. Some days I'd sell several pieces, other weeks nothing at all. That kind of life made me anxious. I needed a steady income, a job that would let me take care of Stella.
Marco seemed to forget about that day's confession and went back to his old self. He'd visit me and Stella every few days, bringing baby supplies and food.
This particular day, he came again.
"Elena." He stood in the doorway, carrying several shopping bags. "I have a proposal."
Marco knew about my recent job hunting. I held Stella, watching him.
"I want to hire you directly to take care of my grandmother, Elena." He paused, looking at me with sincere eyes. "I'll pay you—much more stable than those crafts. And the hours are flexible. You can bring Stella with you."
I was stunned.
"Marco, taking care of your grandmother is my responsibility. You don't need to pay me."
"Elena, you can't split yourself into that many pieces." His tone brooked no argument. "You can't find a stable job and take care of both Stella and my grandmother."
"Besides," he added, a gentle smile playing at his lips, "if I hired some other caregiver, I wouldn't feel comfortable. Just yesterday, I saw a news story about a caregiver abusing an elderly patient... Please, consider it helping me out."
I looked at him. Those warm brown eyes were full of sincerity. He'd given me a reason I couldn't refuse.
"Okay." I finally nodded. "Thank you, Marco."
He smiled—that gentle, considerate big brother again. "You don't need to thank me, Elena. We're family."
Marco's salary was indeed generous. After several months, I'd saved up a decent amount. I rented a shop space in a good location in town and named it after Stella.
"Stella's Handmade" opened quickly, specializing in affordable handmade necklaces.
The first year, I barely broke even, but word spread among local tourists.
The second year, girls went crazy for crystal bracelets. My little shop rode that wave to fame, drawing customers from far and wide. I started turning a profit and moved to a location closer to the town center.
The third year, I hired my first assistant and started taking custom orders.
The fourth year, a fashion buyer from Milan happened into my shop during vacation. She was blown away by my designs. Two months later, my pieces appeared in a high-end boutique in Milan.
The fifth year, I upgraded "Stella's Handmade" to "Stella Studio," renting an entire two-story building on the town's busiest street. The ground floor was showroom and shop, upstairs my workshop and office.
Under the Tuscan sun, I built my empire inch by inch...
"Elena! Check your email!" My assistant Anna, a bubbly young Italian girl, burst into my office waving her tablet.
"What's wrong?" I was reviewing new design sketches.
These five years had changed me completely. I'd learned to wear business suits, learned to negotiate, learned how to manage a growing brand. I'd become mature, confident—no longer that girl struggling at the bottom in New York who could be fooled by a few sweet words from a man.
"It's Vogue Gioiello! The international edition!" Anna shrieked excitedly, shoving the tablet at me. "They want to interview you! They called you Tuscany's rising star designer!"
My heart skipped a beat.
Vogue.
I took the tablet. That elegantly worded English email just sat there.
[Dear Ms. Jensen,
We have taken notice of your brand "Stella's" remarkable growth over the past year. Your unique design aesthetic is redefining contemporary jewelry art.
Vogue Gioiello International Edition cordially invites you for an exclusive interview. The feature will include your personal story, design philosophy, and future brand plans.
This will be an excellent opportunity to showcase your talent to readers worldwide...]
I didn't finish reading. One thought flashed through my mind. Accepting an interview with an international design magazine meant my face, my name, my brand would appear on newsstands around the globe. Including New York.
"Elena? Are you okay?" Anna looked confused. "This is amazing news!"
I forced a smile. "Of course. This is great. Go ahead with your work. I'll reply to them."
Anna skipped away happily.
Once the office door closed, my smile collapsed. I walked to the window, watching children playing in the square below. Stella had gone to kindergarten today. She was five now, bright and adorable.
Five years. Five whole years without hearing a single thing about Igor Vorontsov. Like an ostrich, I'd buried my head in the Italian sand, refusing any news from New York.
He'd probably forgotten me long ago. He was probably married to that mafia princess by now—that Slavic beauty named Natasha. They probably had a kid or two, real, legitimate heirs. And I was just some insignificant episode in his life, a mistress he didn't even bother introducing to his family.
The thought still sent dull aches through my chest. Damn it, I thought I'd healed.
I took a deep breath. I wasn't that Elena Jensen from five years ago who had nothing. I had my business, I had my daughter. I couldn't let some ghost from the past make me pass up this chance to take "Stella" global.
I returned to my desk and placed my fingers on the keyboard. I needed this interview. Stella needed a bigger future, too.
So I started typing my careful reply.