Chapter 3 - Ghosts of the Past
The name hung in the heavy air of the study like a physical threat. Victoria.
Amelia watched the transformation in Lorenzo. The relaxed, almost teasing posture he had held moments ago evaporated, replaced by the dangerous predator the newspapers whispered about. He didn't look at Amelia; his dark eyes were fixed on Marco.
"What does she want?" Lorenzo asked, his voice dangerously low.
"She bypassed the perimeter sensors using an old security override code from her father’s estate," Marco reported quickly. "She’s in the courtyard now, demanding to see you. She brought reporters."
Amelia’s stomach tightened. The pieces clicked into place with jarring clarity. Victoria. One of the previous women—the polished, high-society socialites who had graced the tabloids on Lorenzo’s arm before the engagements mysteriously imploded.
"I'll leave," Amelia said immediately, stepping back toward the door. "You have a visitor. I'm not here to play a supporting role in a tabloid circus."
"Stay," Lorenzo commanded, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist.
His grip was firm, warm, and impossible to break, yet gentle enough not to bruise. The contrast between his lethal reputation and the careful restraint he showed her sent a shiver down her spine.
"I am not hiding from your ex-fiancée, Mr. Duca," Amelia said, pulling her arm back gently. "And I am certainly not your property to show off or stash away."
Lorenzo stared at her for a long, tense second, then gave a sharp nod. "Very well. Come with me."
They descended the grand staircase together, Marco flanking them closely. When the massive front doors of the estate swung open, the bright morning sunlight spilled over the marble foyer and illuminated the courtyard beyond.
Standing near the grand fountain was a stunning blonde woman in a cream-colored designer pantsuit, flanked by two camera operators holding professional lenses. It was Victoria Vance—daughter of a disgraced shipping tycoon, former debutante, and the woman who had spent the last two years assuring the Chicago gossip columns that Lorenzo Duca was incapable of loving anyone outside his ledgers.
"Lorenzo!" Victoria cried out, stepping forward with theatrical grace. Her blue eyes widened as she caught sight of him framed in the doorway. But then her gaze shifted slightly to the left.
And she saw Amelia.
Victoria’s carefully rehearsed expression of heartbroken longing fractured instantly. Her eyes swept over Amelia—taking in her height, her curves, the emerald dress that didn't hide a single inch of her body—and a flash of pure, venomous shock crossed her features.
"Good God, Lorenzo," Victoria sneered, her voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "Is this the new charity case your grandmother picked up from the local shelter? I knew your standards had plummeted after me, but I didn't realize you were collecting rescue projects."
The courtyard went dead silent. Behind Lorenzo, Marco’s hand dropped instinctively toward his holster.
Amelia felt the familiar, burning prick of humiliation sting behind her eyes—the old, deeply ingrained reflex of a woman who had spent her entire life hearing society's quiet, cruel judgments about her size. For a split second, she wanted to turn around, run back up the stairs, and lock herself in the guest suite with her rose-gold suitcase.
Instead, she stepped forward, moving past Lorenzo until she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the grand threshold.
"Actually," Amelia said, her voice clear, calm, and effortlessly carrying across the marble, "I'm not a charity case, Ms. Vance. I'm a ninety-day investment. And based on how quickly you're losing your composure, I'd say I'm already offering a much better return than you ever did."
Victoria’s face flushed bright red. "You little—"
"Enough, Victoria," Lorenzo cut in. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed the terrifying, monolithic weight of an avalanche.
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The cameras swung toward him instantly. Lorenzo didn't flinch. He wrapped one large, calloused hand securely around Amelia’s waist, pulling her flush against his side in a gesture that was undeniably protective and aggressively public.
"You have two minutes to get off my property," Lorenzo told Victoria, his dark eyes devoid of any human warmth. "Or I will let Marco handle your removal. And unlike me, Marco has very little patience for trespassers."
