Chapter 3
LORETTA
The child who appeared at my doorstep—whom I had saved three weeks ago and taken in as my own—turned out to be autistic, but also the unexpected light in my darkness.
Zara, as I have come to know her, has filled the past three weeks with a kind of joy I didn’t think I was still capable of feeling... and somehow, she has already become the best part of my life.
I learned her boundaries quickly.
Too much touch overwhelmed her.
Too many questions shut her down completely.
So I gave her space when she needed it.
Sat quietly nearby when she withdrew into herself.
Learned to recognize the subtle shifts—the way her breathing changed, the small rocking motion, the way her fingers curled tightly into fabric when the world became too much.
It took three days after I took Zara in before she was finally able to utter a full sentence to me,
Over the following days, I tried asking questions as gently as I could—indirect ones, careful ones.
Did she remember her parents? Did she know where home was? Could she remember where she had come from before ending up at my door?
Every single time, Zara fell silent
Or worse—the subtle signs of distress. The way she seemed to fold inward, retreating somewhere I couldn’t follow.
So I stopped asking.
Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared too much to hurt her.
Her autism wasn’t something to fix. It was something to understand. To respect.
And somehow... we fit perfectly.
I knew the risks of keeping Zara in my custody.
I wasn’t na?ve enough to pretend this was sustainable. Children didn’t just disappear without someone noticing. Somewhere out there, someone was looking for her—or worse, someone dangerous was trying to get her back.
They would come eventually.
And when they did, what would I say?
That a blind woman opened her door and found a wounded child asking for help?
That I kept her?
Loved her? Claimed her?
The thought lingered like a storm on the horizon.
But I pushed it away.
Because the alternative—the idea of losing her—was unbearable.
Zara was my daughter.
Not by blood. Not by law. But by choice.
And I would burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.
“Miss Loretta...”
The voice cut through my thoughts, hesitant and careful.
I stiffened slightly, my fingers pausing over my keyboard.
It was Thursday evening, and I was seated behind my desk at Rafael Perez’s company, where I worked as an intern.
Even without sight, I had learned to map the office through sound and movement.
This voice belonged to one of the junior assistants.
“Yes?” I replied, keeping my tone even.
“The boss is finally in,” he said. “He requires your presence immediately.”
My heart dropped.
A sharp, sinking sensation that made my chest tighten as my fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk.
The boss was Rafael Pérez.
Three weeks ago, he had walked into my life like a storm.
He had saved me from Bruno—his vile, reckless younger brother.
He had sat in my messy apartment with effortless authority.
Then told me, in that low, controlled voice of his, to report to his office at nine the next morning.
I went to Rafael Pérez’s office the following morning exactly as instructed.
He wasn’t there.
I tried again the next day. Then again after that. And again.
Each visit met with the same polite dismissal, delivered in carefully neutral tones:
“Mr. Pérez is not on site.”
Of course he wasn’t.
A man like Rafael Pérez didn’t sit behind a desk waiting for anyone—especially not an intern.
He moved in a different world.
Forbes had ranked him as the wealthiest man in Spain—by a margin so wide it bordered on absurd. Twice the net worth of the next billionaire.
Power clung to him like a second skin.
And now...
Just when I had started believing Rafael Pérez had probably forgotten about the blind intern he had summoned to his office three weeks ago, he was suddenly calling for me.
Immediately.
“Miss Loretta?”
The assistant’s voice broke through again, softer this time.
I realized I hadn’t moved.
“I’m coming,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
I exhaled slowly and pushed back my chair, letting the familiar scrape ground me in the present.
Rising to my feet, I reached instinctively for my cane, fingers curling around its smooth handle.
The world sharpened the moment I stepped forward.
My cane swept in practiced arcs across the polished floor, mapping the space with quiet precision.
The low hum of computers faded slightly as I moved away from my desk.
Voices blurred into indistinct murmurs behind me..
A subtle change in airflow brushed against my cheek—the open pathway leading toward the elevators.
I stopped exactly where I knew the call button would be, pressing it without hesitation.
The soft chime.
The whisper of doors sliding open.
Inside, the enclosed space carried a different echo.
I stepped in, turning slightly.
The ascent was smooth, almost too quiet.
My reflection—if I could see it—would have shown nothing of the storm inside me.
The doors opened again with a soft, controlled glide.
Executive floor.
The air itself felt different here—heavier, laced with the faint scent of expensive polish and cologne.
Twelve steps.
That was all it took to reach his office.
I walked them slowly, each one echoing louder in my ears than the last.
By the time I reached the heavy oak door, my pulse had become uneven.
This felt nothing like the previous times I had come asking whether he was in the office.
Those visits had been inconvenient at most.
This felt dangerous.
I had prepared for this moment so many times. Practiced what I would say. How I would remain composed, professional, unaffected.
But standing here, with my hand hovering inches from the wood...
Everything felt different.
I lifted my hand and knocked.
The sound echoed dully through the thick wood.
“Come in.”
His voice slid through the door—deep, smooth as aged whiskey... but edged with something that made my spine straighten instinctively.
Authority.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself, though it did little to quiet the violent rhythm of my heart.
It pounded so loudly I was certain he would hear it the moment I stepped inside.
He said we have things in common.
The thought unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Two steps.
Then I stopped.
I couldn’t map this room yet. I didn’t know where anything was—the desk, the chairs, the distance between us. One wrong step, one miscalculation, and I would collide with something.
Humiliate myself. Reveal weakness.
So I stood still.
My cane rested lightly against the floor, my grip firm but controlled.
My unseeing gaze remained directed forward, though I had no way of knowing if I faced him or an empty wall.
Silence stretched between us.
I became acutely aware of everything.
He stood.
I heard it clearly—the controlled exhale, the almost imperceptible shift of weight before footsteps followed.
Each one closing the distance between us.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up.
Tension coiled through my muscles, tight and immediate. My fingers tightened around my cane as my pulse spiked.
His hand reached for mine.
The contact hadn’t even fully registered before my body reacted.
I flinched.
A sharp, instinctive jerk backward, as if burned.
My spine slammed into the edge of the still-open door with a dull, unforgiving impact.
Pain shot through my shoulder blade—quick, bright, and punishing enough to steal the air from my lungs for a second.
I swallowed it down.
“I was only going to guide you to a chair, Miss Loretta.”
His voice was calm.
“Why do you flinch as if I intend to harm you?”
The question landed softly.
But it struck deep.
Because every man hurts me.
Every single one.
The answer rose instinctively, bitter and immediate, clawing its way up my throat.
But I didn’t say it.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I forced my breathing to steady, pressing my lips together for a brief moment before speaking.
“I... apologize,” I said quietly, my voice more controlled now, though still softer than usual. “I wasn’t expecting—”
I stopped myself.
That wasn’t entirely true.
I was always expecting it.
“I startle easily,” I corrected, lifting my chin just slightly—not in defiance, but in quiet self-preservation. “It won’t happen again.”
A lie.
Because reactions like that didn’t disappear on command.
They were carved into the body.
And no amount of composure could fully erase them.
I shifted my grip on my cane, grounding myself again.
“If you could... tell me where the chair is,” I added, more carefully this time, “I’ll manage.”
I didn’t want his hand on me.
Not when my body still remembered too much.
Not when his presence alone already felt like something I didn’t fully understand.
Rafael Pérez didn’t answer. He didn’t even retreat an inch.
If anything, he remained exactly where he was—close enough that I could feel the subtle shift of air around him every time he breathed.
His presence pressed against my senses, inescapable in a way sight had never been for me.
Even the faint rustle of his suit told a story—tailored, precise.
He was studying me.
I didn’t need eyes to know that.
I felt it in the way the room seemed to narrow around us, as though everything else had fallen away, leaving only his attention fixed squarely on me.
Then, at last, he shifted.
A chair scraped softly against the floor as he pulled it nearer.
“Sit here,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that didn’t need volume to command obedience.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
My cane tapped lightly ahead of me, confirming the space before I turned and lowered myself into the chair.
The leather was cool beneath my hands, soft but structured, the kind of quality you didn’t have to see to recognize.
I adjusted slowly, placing my cane across my lap, my fingers curling around it instinctively.