2. Casey
It’s been a week since my world imploded. A week since my heart was shattered, and I still feel numb. I cried my heart out to my best friend, who turned up at the hotel she’d booked for me within an hour of my checking in, armed with ice cream, wine, chocolate, and hugs.
I hadn’t planned on telling her. The humiliation was still too raw. But the moment she wrapped her arms around me, everything spilled out.
My darling friend somehow managed to turn my tears into laughter when she offered to have Nico pay him a visit and break his legs. I think she was joking, but honestly, I’m not even sure.
Either way, it worked.
I felt less alone.
Declining had been easy, even if I’d played out the twisted revenge in my head and enjoyed seeing him squirm.
We ate the ice cream, drank the wine, and I made her promise not to tell anyone what had happened. It’s just too embarrassing to bear.
Isabella promised, although she admitted Nico already knew I’d broken up with my boyfriend. She said she’d hold back on the details for me.
I love my friend, and just being here with her makes me feel stronger.
Only… barely.
The crying, shattered phase is starting to fade, and something sharper is taking its place.
Anger.
And with it, a restless need to move forward.
To take my life back.
I can’t sit still anymore.
The hotel room that’s been my home for the past week is beautiful. Clean. Luxurious. Safe.
And still, at some point around three in the morning, I realize I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours—replaying conversations I don’t want to remember, imagining new ones I’ll never have.
So I get up.
Take a nice hot shower, enjoying the multiple jets as I scrub my skin, washing away the past. I dress, taking the time to choose an outfit that’s professional and functional for the job.
Adriano Mancini doesn’t mess around when it comes to his daughter.
He’s the devil in a Tom Ford suit. Handsome, rich, powerful, and devoted to his child, and my attempts to tease him have fallen as flat as a pancake in the few times we’ve met.
Although, I’m not sure the woman who teased him so easily exists anymore.
I feel like I’ve aged and changed so much in the last week that I hardly recognize myself.
Yes, outwardly I’m the same, but inside, everything is different.
My emotions have locked down; my openness has closed up shop.
I’m an island now, and only a very few people will be allowed on it.
I pack my bag again, even though it doesn’t need it, and check the room in case I missed something. Usually it’s a phone charger, but nothing is left.
By ten-thirty, I’m sitting in a cab outside the gates of a house that looks nothing like anywhere I’ve ever worked before.
It isn’t just the size.
It’s the stillness.
The kind that feels curated. Maintained. Like nothing happens here by accident. The manicured lawns even have those fancy lines, like someone mowed it in a certain way to create them.
I smooth my hands over my trousers, then immediately regret it when I notice a faint crease I hadn’t seen before. I try to fix it anyway. It gives me something to do.
I’m early. I should have called first. Maybe I should leave.
The thought lands with a familiar edge.
This is a mistake.
I almost tell the driver to turn around.
Come back tomorrow. Do this properly. Arrive at the correct time, with the correct introduction, with everything exactly where it should be.
But then I think about the hotel room.
About the silence.
About the way my phone sat face down on the bedside table like it might still betray me if I looked at it.
I reach for the handle.
“I’ll get out here,” I say.
The gate opens before I knock.
A woman—elegant, warm, unmistakably familiar in the way she carries herself—steps forward with a smile that reaches her eyes before I’ve said hello.
“Casey, it’s so good to see you,” she says, giving me a warm feeling inside.
“Hi, Mrs. Romano, it’s good to see you.”
“Now, none of that. It’s Elena,” she says gently.
Her arms reach out, giving me a tight hug that only mothers seem to get just right. I hug her back as tears sting the back of my nose. The connection settles something in me I hadn’t realized was tight. “I’m sorry. I know I’m early,” I start, as I pull back.
“You’re exactly on time for coffee,” she replies, already stepping aside to let me in. “Come in. I just made biscotti.”
I hesitate for half a second.
Old instinct would be to rush in, to let my emotions show, but I feel more guarded now, and I hate that he did that to me.
Don’t assume welcome.
Don’t step where you’re not invited, but Elena is like her daughter, or perhaps it’s the other way around, and she bustles over my wariness.
“Come on. I left Letty coloring in the playroom, and I promised her biscotti. If I’m not there to stop her, she’ll eat the whole plate, and her father will not be happy.”
“Does he get mad with her a lot?”
I’m not sure I can cope with that right now.
Elena laughs like I just told the best joke she’s ever heard. “Ha, that man is a golden retriever for his daughter. He likes to think he’s a Doberman, but for her, he’s definitely the other.”
The thought makes me smile as I follow her inside the house.
It’s quieter than I expected.
Not empty.
Just… contained.
The kind of quiet where things are where they’re meant to be—but not untouched.
There’s a pair of small shoes by the door; one turned slightly inward like it was kicked off in a hurry. A bright hair clip sits in a shallow dish beside a set of keys, out of place in a way that feels recent, not forgotten.
The surfaces are clean but not stripped. A stray crayon rests on a side table in the hallway.
It isn’t chaotic.
But it isn’t untouched either.
It feels… managed.
Like someone keeps things in place, but something smaller moves through it anyway.
I notice that immediately.
Elena leads me into the kitchen, where sunlight spills across a long marble counter, catching on a glass left to dry beside the sink.
“There’s coffee,” she says. “Sit. You look like you’ve been up too long. I’ll get you a biscotti. You’re too thin.”
I let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. Isabella warned me her mother would try to feed me. “Thank you, and yes. I’ve been awake a while,” I admit.
She pours without asking how I take it and gets it right anyway. Lots of cream and two sugars.
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my fingers, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. “This is a beautiful home,” I say, because it is, but also because I don’t know what else to say.
“It’s a managed one,” she replies, and there’s something in her tone that makes me glance up.
Not pride.
Understanding.
I tuck that away.
Before I can ask what she means, there’s a blur of movement at the edge of the doorway.
Small. Fast.
Letty.
She slows when she sees me. Not shy exactly, but not rushing in either. Her eyes move over me, taking me in like she’s checking something against a memory.
Then she smiles. “You came back.”
It’s not a question.
Something in my chest softens before I can stop it. “I did.”
She steps a little closer, still watching, like she’s deciding if I’m the same person she remembers.
“You let me be the dragon,” she says.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You made me the princess.”
Her mouth twitches, pleased with that. “You were a good princess.”
High praise. “I’ll take that.”
She nods once, like the matter is settled.
Then, without warning, she reaches for my hand.
Not tentative, certain, like a child that’s sure of her place in the world.
“Come on,” she says. “I’ll show you my crayons.”
“Okay.”
That’s apparently all the approval I need, and this is why I love kids. No artifice or games.
She takes my hand without asking, tugging me toward the living room.
“Come see my drawings,” she says.
And just like that, I go.
We’re sitting on the floor when the front door opens.
I don’t hear the door itself.
I feel it.
The shift.
The house changes in a way that’s hard to explain—like something essential has just entered it.
Letty doesn’t notice.
She’s halfway through explaining why one blue crayon is better than another when her head snaps up.
“Daddy!”
The word is bright, immediate.
She’s on her feet before I can react, already running.
I rise more slowly, brushing my hands over my trousers, suddenly aware of everything—where I’m standing, how I look, the fact that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
I hear his footsteps before I see him.
Measured. Controlled. Unhurried.
Then he appears in the doorway.
And for a second—just a second—I understand exactly what Isabella meant.
He doesn’t need to announce himself. The space adjusts around him.
His suit hugs his frame like a lover, his white shirt looking immaculate, the blue silk tie knotted perfectly.
Even his dark hair is swept perfectly back from his handsome face.
Yep, Adriano Mancini is a Greek God of a man, and I want nothing to do with it, thank you very much.
Letty crashes into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, words tumbling out over each other.
“You’re early, and I told her about the blue one, and she said I was patient. But I wasn’t because I wanted to—”
He steadies her without looking down, one hand automatically finding the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair in a gesture so practiced it barely registers as conscious.
Then his gaze lifts.
Finds me.
It isn’t hostile.
It isn’t warm.
It’s… precise.
Like I’ve just been placed somewhere on a scale he hasn’t decided how to read yet.
“You’re early,” he says, the words even, controlled, but carrying no real sense of welcome.
Something in my chest tightens before I can stop it, a small, instinctive reaction I wish I had better control over.
I straighten slightly. “I prefer not to be late. This way I can settle in and get started.”
His gaze doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften. “Friday was the agreed start.”
There it is—not anger, not accusation, just fact. I’m not meant to be here. I’m not wanted here.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does. That feeling of rejection.
For a split second, something sharp rises in me—old instinct, old voice. The urge to bite back and give him as good as he gets. I shut it down. I want to run, to slink away, and lick my wounds. “I understand,” I say, keeping my tone level. “I’ll come back at the agreed-upon time.”
Even as I say it, I step back slightly, already removing myself, withdrawing.
Because that’s easier.
Because that’s safer.
Because this is how I protect myself now.
Letty pulls back just enough to look up at him, then leans in closer, her voice dropping to something that is not nearly as quiet as she thinks it is. “You have to be nice,” she stage-whispers. “You promised.”
I press my lips together hard to suppress the smile that still almost escapes.
I look away before it can.
There’s a beat.
Then he heaves a sigh that sounds like it came from his soul. “You don’t need to leave,” he says.
I look back at him.
Something has shifted, just slightly.
Not softer.
Adjusted.
“You’re here now, so you might as well stay.”
It isn’t an apology.
But it’s something.
I nod once. “Thank you.”
He studies me for another second, like he’s still deciding something.
Then he looks at Letty. “Finish what you were doing,” he tells her.
“I was showing her the good blue crayon,” she says immediately.
“I assumed.”
She beams, and he returns it with a soft look so full of love it almost makes my knees give way. Yep, this man adores his daughter and will do anything to make her happy.
Then he looks back at me, and the softness is gone. “I’ll show you the annex where you’ll be staying.”
The space is separate from the main house, but not distant.
A door off the side corridor leads into it—private without being isolated. Close but detached. I’m used to this kind of setup. It separates staff from family, and it’s a good line to draw for everyone.
He opens it and steps aside to let me walk in first. The scent of his aftershave tickles my nose and makes my mouth water. Expensive and clean.
The kitchenette is small but fully stocked.
The living space is clean, with soft light filtering through wide windows that look out over the back garden where a bike lies on its side and a pink swing set dominates the space.
There’s a navy couch that looks like it’s meant to be used, not just displayed.
A bedroom beyond that with a bed neatly made.
A bathroom that still smells faintly of fresh towels and cleaning products.
It’s… thoughtful, comfortable.
Carefully arranged without feeling impersonal. It’s just what I need.
“You’ll have everything you need here,” he says.
His voice sounds different in this space.
Quieter.
Intimate.
I set my bag down slowly, taking it in.
There’s a door.
A lock.
A space that isn’t shared.
Something in my chest loosens just slightly. “This is… more than I expected,” I admit.
“It’s standard,” he replies.
Of course it is to him. There is no way he can know what this means to me, because it’s more than a job or room and board with a good wage. It’s a sanctuary where I can rebuild and reset.
I nod, folding my hands together to stop myself from touching everything, from testing the reality of it. “I appreciate it.”
He inclines his head once, acknowledging my thanks.
Professional.
Distant.
Safe.
We stand there for a moment that feels longer than it should.
Then I step back. “I’ll get settled,” I say.
He nods again. “Dinner is at six.”
“Understood.”
He turns to leave, then pauses briefly in the doorway.
Not looking at me.
Just… there.
Then he goes.
When the door closes, the silence settles in.
But this time, it doesn’t feel empty.
I walk slowly through the space, trailing my fingers along the back of the couch, the edge of the counter, grounding myself in something real.
It’s quiet, but not lonely like the hotel. I can hear Letty’s voice and the deep rumble of Adriano’s reply, even if I can’t make out the words.
But this little space is mine. For now, at least.
I exhale slowly.
If I keep this simple, if I do the job, keep the boundaries clear, stay out of the spaces that don’t belong to me, I might be able to breathe here.
I might even be able to heal.
I just need to remember why I’m here.
And what I’m not looking for.
I glance toward the door.
Toward the house beyond it.
Toward the man who looked at me like I was something to be assessed, not welcomed.
That helps.
I can work with that.