Chapter 5 Luca
Waking up early has never been the issue. The real problem is that I haven't slept a single minute all damn night.
Classic me, really—so typical it makes me want to slam my head against the marble countertop. Why do I keep doing this to myself? And why, for God's sake, is revenge so hard to grasp? It should be simple, something I could effortlessly seize and make mine.
Wait… am I talking about revenge or about Emma?
Yesterday, it seemed so tempting to bring her into my office, to mess with her head using every strategy I know that still works on her. But now, with the day finally here, I'm already starting to second-guess everything.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. A notification flashes on the screen, and suddenly, I’m wide awake.
Love Lamb.
Despite her fiery and extroverted nature, Emma keeps a frustratingly low profile online.
Tracking her down was borderline obsessive—I scrolled through every damn contact Lauren—her sister— follows on Instagram, until I found it: LoveLamb, the alias only Emma and I share.
Of course, following her openly was out of the question, so I created an anonymous Instagram profile.
The picture is a grim-looking gargoyle. The username?
Gargoth—not the best nickname, but it was enough to follow her from a safe distance, hidden behind layers of anonymity.
Emma posts her creations sporadically—paintings, photography, whimsical puppets, and dishes she’s cooked. Nothing in her recent posts suggested she was living in Miami, so seeing her in person felt like slamming into an invisible wall at full speed.
I’ve set my notifications specifically to alert me when she posts, and apparently, uploading something at five in the morning is perfectly reasonable to her. The thought makes me smile. Nothing Emma does is ever ordinary.
I open her post—a painting this time. Chains dangle from the ceiling of a small, confined space, intertwined delicately with flowers.
Is she awake right now? And if so, why the hell can't she sleep either?
Without thinking, my fingers move across the screen and hit send.
Gargoth:
What does it mean?
It’s the first time I’ve ever messaged her directly. I don’t know why today—maybe it’s the physical proximity or just knowing she’s awake at the same ridiculous hour as me. Whatever it is, it’s enough to break years of silent observation.
Her response lights up my screen, and my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
Love Lamb:
Not sure yet. It was just a dream I had, and I thought it was pretty.
I’m sprawled on the bed, phone in hand, the screen’s glow washing over me. A smirk tugs at my lips. Before I know it, my thumbs are back at it.
Gargoth:
Can I tell you what I think it means?
Love Lamb:
Nothing’s stopping you…
I chuckle softly into the darkness of my room.
Gargoth:
I think you’re in prison, but you like it.
She’s the one who taught me how to read art in the first place. She must know what her subconscious is trying to tell her.
Another message pops up.
Love Lamb:
You know what? Now that you mention it, that makes sense. I recently moved to a city I thought I'd hate, but it turns out I’m actually loving it.
She loves Miami? Well, damn, I shouldn’t be surprised. Miami’s made for someone like Emma Green, all bright colors, art, and fierce energy.
My thumbs move again, unfiltered, before my mind catches up.
Gargoth:
I charge two hundred an hour. Whenever you want a session, let me know.
What the hell are you doing, Luca?
Love Lamb:
Oh, I definitely need a therapist. Things are about to get pretty complicated for me.
All hesitation evaporates instantly. She practically invited me in.
Gargoth:
Why complicated?
Love Lamb: Not getting into details with a stranger, but let's just say my future boss is going to be a major pain in the ass. I can feel it already.
I laugh—loudly this time. I swear I've laughed more during this short conversation with Emma than I have in the entire past week.
Gargoth:
Is he strict?
Love Lamb:
Ugh, you have no idea. But deep, deep down, I think he has a good heart.
I stare at her message, feeling a strange tightness in my chest, a sensation I can't quite identify.
If only she knew.
I immediately close the conversation as my stomach twists itself into a knot at her last message. Grabbing my phone again, I quickly text my therapist, Dr. Smith.
You got an opening today?
I’ve been seeing Dr. Smith on and off for about two years now. He’s good at what he does—actually, he's great—but I usually only schedule appointments sporadically. Today, though, I need to talk. Badly.
My controlling tendencies are already resurfacing, wreaking havoc like they were never buried at all.
Yesterday, for instance, I decided exactly where Emma’s team should set up.
At first, the second floor seemed appropriate.
But then, I reconsidered. It was too far.
I needed them—needed her—close, within easy view from my office window.
So, naturally, I moved the entire accounting department upstairs to make room for her. No one was happy about it, but frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’m the boss; no one argues with my decisions.
The doorbell rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. Time for Luis to drive me and for me to get this session over with in peace.
Dr. Smith finally texted back to confirm he had an opening at nine.
So here I am, trapped inside my Audi, wondering how the hell I'm going to explain myself this time.
Dr. Smith is the therapist of choice for Miami’s rich and famous. He's in his early forties and successful enough to see clients from his oceanfront penthouse in Hollywood. Technically, the guy could meet me in pajamas, but he's professional enough to dress like an academic each time I show up.
His housekeeper greets me at the door and leads me inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the endless stretch of South Florida’s ocean, the waves glittering like spilled glass under the sun.
The air smells faintly of salt, drifting in even through the sealed glass.
Polished marble floors shine, sleek furniture perfectly placed, every detail curated for quiet luxury.
I sink into the familiar leather chair. I never lie down—it feels too cliché—but Dr. Smith once confessed that many of his patients do, usually because they can’t handle eye contact when spilling their darkest secrets.To each their own.
“Luca,” Dr. Smith says, rushing into the room and shaking my hand firmly.
Silver hair perfectly combed back, gold watch glinting under the cuff of a tailored blazer.
He has that cultivated calm of a man who charges by the hour and never raises his voice, his cologne subtle but expensive. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
My gaze flicks to the clock: 9:01. Yeah, Dr. Smith is even more obsessive about punctuality than I am.
“How are you?” he asks, settling into his chair behind the desk.
How am I? Seriously? If I’m here at nine in the morning, obviously, I'm not okay. But I know it's just his standard icebreaker, so I spare him my usual sarcasm and stare out at the waves crashing in the distance instead.
“She’s in Miami,” I say flatly.
He pauses, assessing me. “Who?”
“Emma.”
I don't need to clarify; Dr. Smith knows exactly who Emma is. He knows precisely what she did to me, how she crushed my heart, stomped on it, spat on it, and threw it to the hyenas for laughs.
“Oh…” he says quietly, finally grasping how serious this really is.
“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” I echo bitterly, standing up to pace near the window. “She showed up in my office on Monday, and by Tuesday I had arranged for her entire team to work in my building.”
“Wait, hold on,” he interrupts, swiveling his chair to track my movement. “She’s working for you now?”
“Yes. Her marketing agency is doing a campaign for Property Group.”
“That doesn’t sound good at all.”
“I know!” I snap, irritated—though I have no one to blame but myself.
“So, what are you planning to do?”
I spin around to face him, taking in his large, dark eyes—a bit too wide for his face, but that’s not his fault. “I came here so you could tell me what to do!”
Dr. Smith laughs gently, which only ratchets up my annoyance. “I can’t decide your life for you, Luca. My job is to help you break down your thoughts.”
Seriously? Five hundred dollars an hour for that? Waste of my time. Irritated, I stride toward the exit, already plotting my escape.
“Wait, Luca,” he says urgently. “Sit down, let's talk this through.”
“Years,” I grind out through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle. “Years of therapy to get her out of my system, Doctor. And now she strolls back into my life like some gentle autumn breeze, and in less than twenty-four hours, I've lost all control.”
He motions toward the chair again, but all I really want is to set the damn thing on fire.
“Lost all control?” he repeats carefully.
I pace back and forth, restless energy boiling under my skin. “Yeah, and I haven’t even seen her working in my office yet. It was literally one hour—I negotiated the worst contract imaginable just to keep her close.”
“Okay, let's slow down. Consider other options,” he suggests calmly. “Maybe she can work in the building, but not directly on your floor. How would that sound?”
Already solved that particular problem. “No. She has to be close.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth, but the words that nearly escape aren't rational—they’re borderline psychotic.
I say them anyway. “Because if I know Emma Green is somewhere in my building, with even the slightest possibility of running into her, I'll lose my goddamn mind. I need to know exactly where she is at all times and see her whenever I want. Otherwise—”
“You feel out of control,” he interrupts softly, understanding dawning.
“Exactly,” I admit. Before I realize it, I’m sinking back into the chair. God, my head’s a mess.
Dr. Smith leans forward, watching me carefully. “Luca, we’ve been through this. You know control isn’t always something you can hold in your hand.”
Except it is. You just heard me say it, Doc. But I don't voice that out loud. Instead, I nod quietly. “I need to know her location to stay focused. We're very close to overtaking our competition, and I can't afford distractions.”
When I say "competition," I mean the Collins Lozano Group—specifically, Troy Lozano, the CEO, my nemesis; yeah, I have a nemesis.
I plan on burying him deep in the Atlantic.
The latest financial predictions suggested Lozano's group would triple its earnings, leaving Property Group stagnant.
That can't happen. It’s not just about my competitive siblings, either.
I need to be the best in Florida. End of story.
That's why I hired a damn marketing firm.
“I understand,” Dr. Smith says gently. “But these small shifts—these compromises—are exactly what you need to surf through the chaos if you can't avoid it. Emma is just one person. Remember, she only has as much power as you give her.”