It was afternoon.
The car pulled into the estate slowly, the sun casting long shadows across the driveway. Elena sat quietly in the back seat, her body rested, her mind still wrapped around the moment that had just passed.
Beside her, Brittany was typing something into her tablet, organizing post-transfer instructions. Neither of them expected anything unusual.
But as they stepped into the foyer, the air shifted.
Luca was there.
Standing near the grand staircase, dressed in a charcoal suit, hands casually tucked into his pockets. His presence was unmistakable—calm, composed, quietly commanding.
Brittany stopped mid-step, her eyes widening slightly.
"Mr. Moretti… you're back," she said, surprised. "I didn't receive any update about your return."
Luca smiled, his gaze flicking between them. "Dr. Leoni informed me that the embryo transfer was successful."
Brittany nodded, recovering quickly. "Yes, it went smoothly."
She turned to Elena, her expression softening.
Elena looked at Brittany, then at Luca.
Her eyes met his.
And she smiled—warm, quiet, full of something unspoken.
"It was," she said.
Luca held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he nodded once, turned, and walked toward his study.
No further words.
But something had shifted.
And everyone felt it.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold. A soft breeze drifted through the mansion's upper floors, carrying the faint scent of roses.
Elena had just finished changing into something simple—elegant, but understated—when Brittany knocked gently on her door.
"Mr. Moretti would like to see you," she said. "He's arranged something… on the rooftop."
Elena raised a brow. "The rooftop?"
Brittany smiled. "You'll see."
The rooftop had been transformed.
Soft lanterns hung from the pergola, casting a warm glow over the space. A table for two sat at the center, draped in ivory linen, surrounded by hundreds of roses—white, blush, and deep crimson. Their scent filled the air, delicate and intoxicating.
Luca stood near the edge, looking out over the city lights. When he heard her footsteps, he turned.
"Elena," he said, voice low but clear. "Thank you for coming."
She stepped closer, taking in the scene. "You did all this?"
He nodded. "A small gesture. You've been… remarkably composed through all of this. I wanted to acknowledge that."
She smiled, touched but cautious. "You didn't have to."
"I know," he said, pulling out her chair. "But I wanted to."
They sat.
Dinner was quiet at first—soft music playing in the background, the clink of silverware, the occasional breeze rustling the roses.
But beneath the silence, something stirred.
Not romance, exactly.
Not yet.
But something close.
Respect. Curiosity. A shared understanding.
And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something more.
The dinner remained quiet.
The clink of cutlery, the soft hum of music, and the gentle rustle of roses in the breeze filled the space between them. Elena sipped her wine slowly, her gaze drifting across the skyline, then back to Luca.
He was composed, as always—eating slowly, occasionally glancing her way, but saying little.
It was peaceful.
But Elena couldn't ignore the question that had been sitting in her chest since the beginning.
She set her glass down, her voice soft but clear.
"Why did you actually choose me?" she asked. "I know I'm not the best. There were women who wanted this job badly. More qualified. More… prepared."
Luca paused.
He didn't look away.
Instead, he locked eyes with her, his expression unreadable but focused.
"You were perfect for me," he said.
Just that.
No explanation. No elaboration.
But it was enough.
Elena's eyes widened slightly, her breath catching. Her cheeks flushed—not dramatically, but just enough to tint her skin with warmth.
She looked down for a moment, then back up, a quiet smile forming.
"Okay," she said softly.
The silence returned.
But it felt different now.
Not empty.
Full.
The rooftop had grown quieter.
The plates had been cleared, the wine glasses half-full, the roses swaying gently in the night breeze. The city lights below flickered like distant stars, casting a soft glow across the terrace.
Elena stood slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the table.
Luca rose with her.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
As they walked toward the rooftop exit, Luca reached out—subtle, deliberate—and offered his arm.
Elena hesitated for half a second.
Then she took it.
Their steps were slow, measured, echoing softly down the marble staircase. The mansion was hushed, the staff long retired to their quarters, the halls lit only by wall sconces and moonlight.
Halfway down, Elena glanced up at him.
"You meant it?" she asked quietly. "What you said earlier?"
Luca looked down at her, his gaze steady.
"I don't say things I don't mean."
She nodded, her heart thudding quietly.
They reached her suite.
He stopped just outside the door, releasing her arm gently.
Elena turned to face him, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Luca leaned in—not too close, just enough for his voice to reach her clearly.
"Rest well, Elena."
She smiled, her voice barely above a whisper. "Goodnight, Mr. Moretti."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the quiet.
Elena stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it.
Her heart was full.
And something had changed.
Elena stood in the center of her suite, the door clicking shut behind her.
She didn't move.
She just stood there, letting the silence settle around her like a soft echo.
Then—without warning—she smiled.
Wide. Unrestrained. The kind of smile that made her eyes crinkle and her shoulders drop, like she'd just let go of something heavy.
She walked to the window, pulled the curtains open, and let the moonlight spill across the room. Her reflection in the glass looked different tonight—lighter, freer, like someone who'd just remembered how to breathe.
She twirled once, barefoot on the cool tile, her oversized sweater swaying around her.
She laughed.
Softly.
To herself.
It wasn't just the dinner.
It wasn't just Luca's words.
It was everything.
The embryo transfer. The rooftop. The walk back. The feeling that maybe—just maybe—she wasn't just surviving.
She was living.
She was… happy.
And tomorrow was a school day.
She padded over to her desk, where a half-open laptop blinked sleepily. She plugged in her charger, stacked her textbooks, and scribbled a quick to-do list for the morning: Print lab notes. Email Professor D. Buy coffee pods.
She pulled out a pair of jeans and a loose blouse from her closet—laid them gently over the armchair.
She brushed her hair, tied it into a messy bun, and set her alarm.
Then she climbed into bed, the sheets cool against her skin, her heart still fluttering.
Tomorrow would be ordinary.
But tonight?
Tonight was hers.