Days had passed since her father's death, yet the silence in the house felt heavier than ever. Elena stood by the window that morning, staring at the soft sunlight filtering through the curtains. Her heart was tired of fighting — tired of blood, loss, and pain. She whispered to herself, "I want to be happy again. Just this once."
Downstairs, the staff moved quietly, afraid to disturb her. Everyone in Italy still whispered about the mysterious death of Dante Russo, but no one dared to connect it to the woman living in Lorenzo's mansion. Even her stepmother, Clara, was secretly pleased. She had wanted Dante gone for years — she just never imagined it would be Elena's hand that did it.
Elena didn't care anymore. What was done was done. The ghosts of the past couldn't be brought back, but the future still held a flicker of warmth — Lorenzo.
She tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and decided to cook for him. The maids offered to help, but she refused gently. "No. This one's from me," she said with a small smile.
For hours, the kitchen filled with the scent of rosemary and butter. She made his favorite — creamy pasta with grilled chicken and a light red wine sauce. It wasn't perfect, but she wanted it to be a gesture of peace.
By noon, she packed everything neatly into a basket, adding a little note on top:
For my hard man — from the woman who wants to be your peace.
She looked at it for a long time, smiling softly before whispering, "I just want to see him smile again."
She called the driver and asked him to take her to Lorenzo's office. The road was quiet, her heart warm and calm for the first time in weeks. She imagined his expression when she'd walk in — maybe a surprised grin, maybe a kiss, maybe just that little look in his eyes that said he still loved her.
But life had its way of breaking peace the moment it was found.
When she arrived at the office, the guards greeted her respectfully. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Moretti," one of them said.
She smiled shyly and walked in, clutching the basket. But as she approached Lorenzo's private wing, she heard laughter. A woman's laughter — soft, familiar, and close.
Elena froze.
It came from inside his office. She frowned, her heart skipping painfully. She took a small step forward, her fingers trembling as she reached for the door handle.
"Lorenzo," a woman's voice said from inside, sweet and smooth like honey. "You haven't changed a bit. You still keep your office freezing cold."
His low voice followed, calm but not distant. "Some things don't change, Isabella."
Isabella. The name hit Elena like a whisper from the past.
She slowly pushed the door open.
There she was — tall, elegant, and perfectly dressed in a silk white dress. Her perfume filled the air, strong enough to make the room feel smaller. Isabella stood close to Lorenzo's desk, her hand resting casually on the edge, her lips curved in a knowing smile.
Lorenzo turned immediately when he heard the door creak. "Elena—"
Elena's eyes darted between them — his old lover standing in his office, their voices too soft, too familiar.
"Sorry," Elena said quietly, forcing a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
She walked in slowly, placing the basket on his desk. "I made you lunch. Thought you'd be hungry."
"Sweetheart," Lorenzo started, stepping toward her, but she stepped back slightly.
Isabella raised a perfectly shaped brow. "So this is the famous Elena I've been hearing about," she said, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
Elena smiled politely. "And you must be the ghost from his past."
Isabella chuckled. "Still as sharp as they say."
Lorenzo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Isabella just came to talk business, Elena. That's all."
"Business?" Elena repeated, her voice soft but shaking. "You never mentioned you had business with your ex."
"It's complicated," he said quickly.
"Then maybe you should've made it simple before I walked in," she replied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Isabella looked between them, clearly enjoying the tension. "Relax, darling. I'm not here to steal your man. I already had him once. I don't repeat my past."
Elena's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and turned to Lorenzo. "Enjoy your business lunch. I'll see you at home."
"Elena, wait—"
She walked out before he could finish. The door shut behind her, and the echo of it felt like a small heartbreak breaking through the silence.
Outside, she leaned against the wall, clutching her chest. Not again, she thought. Not another reason to cry.
The driver saw her pale face and rushed to open the door, but she shook her head. "I'll drive myself," she said coldly, walking toward Lorenzo's black BMW.
Inside the office, Lorenzo glared at Isabella. "You had no right to talk to her like that."
She smirked. "Oh, please. I didn't say anything untrue. You did love me once, remember?"
He stepped closer, his tone sharp. "That was years ago. Don't ever bring her into our mess again."
Isabella smiled faintly, whispering, "But you let her walk away, Lorenzo. Maybe deep down… you still haven't decided who really owns your heart."
He turned away, jaw tight, but her words lingered long after she left the room.
Back at the mansion, Elena sat on the balcony, staring at the fading sunset. The food she made still sat untouched beside her. The note she'd written now felt like a cruel reminder of her own naivety.
She whispered to herself, "Maybe I'll never be enough for him. Maybe peace isn't meant for people like us."
Her phone buzzed — Lorenzo calling.
She stared at the screen, her heart aching, but she didn't answer.
That night, for the first time in a long while, she slept alone — not because she had to, but because she wanted to remember what it felt like to protect her heart again.