Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Elena
After returning from Manhattan, my mood had lifted considerably. Sure, Valentina was back, but her presence didn't seem to affect what Dante and I had. He'd been gentler with me, and that hadn't changed just because she'd returned.
And he'd agreed to let me make him a suit. That lit something inside me—hope, maybe, that I could still win his love.
Back at the manor, rest was the last thing on my mind. I knew his build—broad shoulders, high waistline. He'd look good in anything, but I wanted to design something no one else could give him.
I spent the entire day at it, trashing five drafts before I finally had one I liked. The next day I dug out my stash of fabrics and tools, making a mental list of what else I'd need.
Lucia appeared with a tray of fruit. "Elena, you have a visitor."
I was set up in the garden pavilion, my table covered in design books and sketches. I looked up. "Who?"
Luca's head popped out from behind Lucia. He wore a light gray shirt, carried a paper bag, and had that easy smile that could brighten anyone's day.
"Hey, Elena." He came around and sat across from me, pulling several books from the bag. "Brought you something. Thought you might like these."
Lucia set down the fruit with a smile. "I'll leave you two. Call if you need anything."
I nodded, already reaching for my sketches. "I just finished this. But I've never designed menswear before. What do you think? Would Dante... like it?"
Luca studied the sketch carefully. His eyes lit up. "Wow. That's really fresh."
I'd drawn a double-breasted suit with peaked lapels, sharp shoulder lines, a slightly nipped waist, and a hem that ended just above the knee. The chest had subtle contouring for a fuller, more natural line.
On the cuffs, I'd designed a three-button arrangement with a dark-green mother-of-pearl button in the center—one I'd been saving, the same shade as that green dress I loved.
"The main fabric is deep navy, with a matte finish." I pointed to my notes. "Black satin on the lapels. He could flip them up for formal events—make it work as evening wear too."
Luca had taste and talent. He suggested refining the waistline even more, eliminating excess fabric for a cleaner, sharper look. I agreed immediately and started revising on the spot.
Afternoon sun filtered through the vines overhead, casting dappled shadows on the table. Luca sat beside me, our heads nearly touching as we both bent over the sketch.
Time slipped away. Eventually we had a version we both loved.
"Perfect." I looked at Luca gratefully. "Thank you. I never studied design—your input really helped."
"Elena, natural talent beats anything you can learn." Luca picked up his teacup, looking at me with something like envy. "You know how much I wish I had what you have? I'm not good at creating. I'm good at refining. If we ever get the chance, I think we'd work really well together."
His words stirred something in me—dreams I hadn't let myself have in a while.
But reality crashed back in. My life would never have that kind of spotlight. I used to be a maid at Moretti Manor. Now I was the lady of Moretti Manor. My job wasn't to pursue a career. It was to produce an heir.
Seeing my expression shift, Luca changed the subject. "You going to look at these?"
I snapped back, focusing on the books. I hadn't really looked before—there was a Milan Fashion Week catalog, an advanced guide to fabric techniques, and an Italian-language tutorial on suit construction, filled with detailed hand-drawn illustrations.
"I saw them at the bookstore and thought you'd like them." Luca's tone was casual, like it was nothing.
"Thank you." No one had ever supported my designing like this. I picked up the books, meaning every word. "These will really help."
Luca watched me, sipping his tea. After a moment, he set the cup down, his voice quieter. "Actually, there's something else I came to tell you."
I looked up.
"Valentina—the woman my uncle rescued. He told me she came back to New York for one reason: to get Dante back. She's not even trying to hide it anymore."
My hand froze on my teacup.
"And." Luca looked at me with something like pity. "I heard she's already staying at Dante's place in Manhattan."
The air went still.
I stared down at the tea leaves floating in my cup, my fingertips going cold.
Was that true? Dante let Valentina move into his apartment?
I didn't want to believe it. But Luca had no reason to lie.
I lifted my head, forcing my voice to stay steady. "That's just what you heard. I'll believe it when I see it myself."
Luca's expression was complicated—sympathy mixed with regret.
"Elena, you deserve someone who'll actually love you." He stood, setting his cup down gently. "I'm telling you this so you can see the truth. So you don't end up regretting it later."
He got to his feet. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."
After Luca left, I sat in the pavilion for a long time. The afternoon sun was still warm, but I couldn't feel it.
I picked up my phone and texted Dante. "The suit design is ready. Come home for dinner tonight so I can take your measurements?"
His reply came quickly. "Alright."
Relief washed over me.
He was still answering my texts, and he hadn't made me wait. He still cared. I was sure of it.
Even if Valentina was staying at his place, maybe she just had nowhere else to go. Maybe Dante was just helping her out for old times' sake.
I found reasons that made sense. I rallied. I arranged for materials, planned dinner, and spent the rest of the afternoon preparing. I waited for Dante to come home.
When it got dark, I heard sounds from the front gate. I checked my outfit and hair, then walked out to the hallway to meet him.
I'd dressed carefully today—something elegant from the closet—and had Lucia help with my hair. I looked polished. Pretty.
Two people came through the door. I looked up, and my smile froze.
Dante stood there in a charcoal suit, his tie impeccably knotted. And on his arm was a tall woman with striking confidence: Valentina.
She wore a champagne-colored dress, her hair loose over her shoulders, a perfect smile on her face as she leaned in to say something to Dante. He tilted his head to listen, the corner of his mouth lifting in what almost looked like a smile.
I stood in the shadows of the hallway, watching them come in. Valentina's laugh echoed through the foyer, light and carefree, like she was the one who belonged here.
And I was the one who didn't.
Dante finally saw me. His gaze swept over my face for a split second, then moved on like I was nothing.
"Elena." His tone was flat, like he was assigning a task. "Valentina's never been to the manor. Have the kitchen prepare her favorites."
Valentina followed his gaze to me, her smile warm and gracious. "Hi, Elena. Dante invited me for dinner. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."
I stared at her hand on Dante's arm, her pale fingers curled tight around him. And Dante just let her. He didn't say a word.
My chest felt like someone had punched straight through it.
"This is our home." My voice shook. "Dante, what are you doing, bringing Valentina here?"
Dante's mouth curved into something mocking. He pulled Valentina closer and looked down at me. "Elena, I don't like women who play dumb."
He walked past me toward the dining room, Valentina at his side.
I stood there, watching them disappear together. Valentina said something to him. He leaned in to hear. The gesture looked practiced, natural—like they'd done it a thousand times before.
The sight stabbed through me. I wanted to scream, to throw something, but suddenly I had no ground to stand on.
I was Dante's wife. But what else was I?
He didn't love me.
That fact sealed my defeat against Valentina. She was his first love. He'd spent years searching for her. How could I ever compete with that?
I had no strength left to face any of it. I turned and went back to my room.
My finished sketch was still spread on the desk, the measuring tape beside it. I sat down and picked up the paper, looking at every line I'd drawn—the shoulders, the waist, the curve of the lapels, the mother-of-pearl button on the cuff.
Tears fell without warning, one after another, landing on the sketch and blurring the green ink lines. I wiped at my face, but the tears kept coming. Finally I broke down completely, sobbing like an abandoned child.
I couldn't hear what was happening downstairs, but I could picture it. Dante would be his usual gentlemanly self. He'd serve her food, maybe wipe the corner of her mouth. They'd talk about old times. They'd laugh.
And I'd never had any of that.
I cried until my head spun, nearly falling from the chair before I caught the edge of the desk. My stomach twisted with nausea, but nothing came up.
Then the door slammed open. I thought it was Lucia. I was lying on the bed, exhausted. "Are they gone?"
Dante laughed bitterly. "That eager to get rid of me?"
I froze, then sat up. He stood over me, angrier than I'd ever seen him—angrier than the night he'd been drugged.
He was terrifying. His tie hung loose, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked at me with a twisted smile and asked, "What the hell are you crying about, Elena?"
I looked up at him through blurred vision, my mouth opening. "I—"
Before I could speak, Dante yanked a stack of photos from his pocket and threw them in my face. I raised my arms to block them. One sharp corner sliced across my forearm, drawing blood.
But I didn't feel the pain. I was staring at the photos scattered around me.
They were of me. And Luca.
Every single one from this afternoon in the garden—us talking, laughing, our heads close together, our bodies near. The angles made it look intimate. Inappropriate.
Every shot was crystal clear. But the framing was deliberate, twisting an innocent meeting into something it wasn't.
I looked back up at Dante. I tried to explain. But his eyes were full of rage—barely contained fury that burned from the depths of his blue gaze all the way to his brow.
"So tell me." His voice was low and controlled, each word deliberate. "Elena. What the hell are you crying about?"