The little birds outside were already awake, chattering against the stillness of dawn. Their voices cut through the morning hush, bright and insistent, as though the world itself had given them no reason to be quiet. Perhaps they sang because they knew no worry—or because they did, but chose to sing anyway. Whatever the reason, their chorus was unrelenting.
In his arms, she stirred faintly, her breathing calm and even. Her skin was warm against his, her arms still draped around his shoulders in an absent-minded embrace that felt both fragile and certain. He held her waist with deliberate gentleness, afraid to wake her from the rare peace that had finally found her. His fingers threaded through her hair, the silk of it smooth beneath his touch, carrying the faint scent of lavender.
Her robe had fallen open at the collar, revealing the edge of lace brushing his chest. The fabric was rough where her skin was soft, and he felt the contrast like a pulse beneath his ribs. Yet he didn't move. He had never seen her so still, so unguarded, and he would not break the moment with something as crude as motion.
The first light of dawn began to spill into the room, touching the edges of the bed, the walls, their tangled silhouettes. From the mezzanine, the horizon glowed gold and faintly orange, the day stretching itself awake. She shifted, murmuring something half-formed, words still tangled in sleep. He smiled—quietly, helplessly.
"I know you're awake," he whispered, his voice low against her skin.
She made a sound that was half hiss, half laugh. "I'm not," she protested softly, though her lips betrayed her with the faintest smile. Her eyes opened just in time to catch his—warm, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn't seen since all this began.
She pressed closer, closing the small distance between them, and kissed him before her thoughts had the chance to stop her. The world contracted into the space between their mouths—the warmth, the breath, the pulse. His hands moved over her back, tracing the outline of her spine, her waist, as though memorizing every inch.
The feeling was slow, then sudden—an ache that bloomed and spread, a heat that spoke in languages neither of them dared name. She wanted those hands to move lower, to erase the last of the restraint between them. But even through the haze of wanting, she could feel him holding back, fighting the edge of control.
She had once told him he was breaking her walls.
But what about his?
He exhaled, a sound almost lost against her ear. "Everything about this feels right."
His voice was deeper in the morning, weighted with the gravity of truth. His breath was hot on her cheek, his heartbeat thunderous where her chest met his. She could hear it—no, she could feel it—steady, strong, alive.
Of course it feels right, Vincent, she thought.
It was the first time in a long while that something finally did.
He kissed her without warning.
There was no hesitation—no startle, no flinch. Her body did not retreat from the sudden closeness, nor did her mind recoil in that familiar jolt of fear. Where was it now—the trembling, the nausea, the instinct to run? The ghosts that once lived beneath her skin had gone quiet, as though they, too, had paused to watch this moment unfold.
Once, the touch of a man had felt like a sentence—a reminder of the hands that had hurt her, the voices that had stolen the name she gave herself. But now, in this stillness between heartbeats, her body did not fight. It yearned. It understood something her mind had not yet caught up to.
She shut her eyes and let the kiss dictate her world.
In that instant, she saw it—an imagined place born from the weight of longing. A lake glimmering under soft light, a small dock reaching into its calm waters, green fields stretching endlessly beyond. She could almost feel the linen cloth beneath her, the air tasting of sun and summer. His shirt clung to her skin like a promise, and her laughter—her real laughter—rippled across that imagined shore. She could feel his hands again, not as a threat but as gravity itself, pulling her beneath the grass, pressing her gently into the earth until the world above them dissolved into the hush of love's weight.
When he finally drew back, the silence between them was heavy, trembling. Her eyes opened before her breath could steady. She searched his face, desperate for the fire she had felt—and there it was.
Desire, raw and unmasked, glowed behind his calm expression like embers waiting to ignite. It burned not just for her body, but for something deeper—something fragile and human.
"Vincent…" she whispered. Her voice was thin, trembling on the edge of surrender.
He tilted his head, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. "The only thing more beautiful than your face right now—" he paused, letting her wait, watching the faint flush bloom across her cheeks, "—is your smile."
She hid her face with both hands, laughing softly, the sound breaking through her shyness. Her skin was warm, and her heart betrayed her by racing. He laughed too—a deep, unguarded sound that rumbled from his chest, shaking the tension loose between them.
When he finally lifted her from the couch, her disappointment surprised even herself. The air felt colder without his nearness. She steadied herself on her feet, and he guided her wordlessly toward the kitchen that opened from the left wing of the estate.
The space was vast, polished marble and quiet warmth, the scent of rosemary and chocolate still lingering in the air from some forgotten hour. Morning light slanted through the tall windows, painting gold across the counters.
He lifted her easily onto the table, the movement effortless. She sat there, legs dangling, watching him move through the kitchen with an ease that felt almost domestic—his tall frame bending to reach the shelves, retrieving two white mugs. He poured the coffee with quiet focus, the faint hiss of steam filling the silence.
For a fleeting second, she thought—this is what peace must look like.
She waited. Watched the muscles on his back ripple and tighten as he peeled off his shirt. The morning light caught on his skin like gold brushed over stone. No sooner did the kettle start to whistle did she pick up the magazine lying on the table — a brochure of Italian meals. She tried to focus on it, flipping a page, pretending to read. But the question had already burned through her tongue.
"Who's Samantha?"
He stopped moving. The air shifted. For a long moment, even the kettle's whistle seemed distant.
When he turned, his face was unreadable — a calm she'd learned was often where his pain lived.
"She was the first woman I loved."
His voice was low, almost detached, but the words hung heavy. Jennifer watched him, not knowing if she should speak again, until his gaze trailed off toward the sunlight spilling through the windows. The light caught his eyes, and for a second, they looked far away.
It was the same light that used to pour through a glass wall overlooking the vineyards of Rolling Hills.
He had seen it before — on her skin.
~10 Years Ago~
The house in Rolling Hills had always smelled of citrus and wet grass. Samantha used to open the windows every morning, letting the breeze sweep through the curtains while she made coffee barefoot. She wasn't born into wealth, and she never got used to it. She said the silence in large houses frightened her — too perfect, too polished, too empty.
She was the kind of woman who laughed without waiting for permission. She wore sundresses that looked out of place in the marble corridors of the Moretti estate, and she called Vincent out when his voice sharpened or his temper rose. She wanted simplicity. A life away from boardrooms, bodyguards, and branded lies.
"You don't need all this," she'd say, her finger tracing the edge of his cufflink. "You think it keeps you safe, but it's your cage, Vincent."
He used to laugh. Until one day, he didn't.
He had loved her fiercely — but with the wrong kind of fire. She wanted a home; he wanted to build her a kingdom. She wanted peace; he gave her control. And when he couldn't have her his way, he called it love.
The fights began small — over the way she spent too much time with her camera, or how she insisted on working at the old café in Beverly Hills despite his name being enough to make her a millionaire. She'd tell him she wanted her own life, something that wasn't branded Moretti.
Then came the night it all cracked.
It had been raining since afternoon — the kind of relentless downpour that makes the hills look like they're bleeding water. Vincent had come home from a meeting with men who wanted more from him than money. She was waiting, sitting on the couch, her camera bag beside her. He didn't like the look in her eyes.
"I'm leaving in the morning," she said.
"For how long?"
"Forever."
The word echoed. He thought she was bluffing. He thought everyone bluffed until they didn't.
He shouted — louder than he meant to. She shouted back.
He told her she didn't understand what it meant to be his. She told him she didn't want to.
And when she grabbed her keys and stormed out into the rain, he didn't follow. Pride kept him glued to the floor, fury keeping his voice inside his throat.
He thought she'd be back in an hour.
But she didn't make it past the curve between Rolling Hills and Beverly. The road there was slick, narrow, and the rain had turned it into a mirror of chaos. Her car hydroplaned, spun once, twice, then slammed into a barrier.
By the time the paramedics found her, she was already gone.
The call came at 1:23 a.m. The voice on the line said her name, the rest blurred into static.
He remembered driving there in the same storm she'd tried to escape, his headlights cutting through the curtain of rain until he saw the wreck — twisted metal, glass, the smell of gasoline, and a small red scarf tangled in the mud.
Her red scarf.
He never forgot that.
For two years, Vincent didn't live — he existed. The house grew cold. The mirrors were covered. The staff spoke in whispers. He refused to touch the piano she loved. He spent nights staring at her last text message: "I wish you knew how to be happy without owning everything."
He never replied. He didn't know how.
Even now, a decade later, he could still hear the rain when her name was spoken.
It was the one sound that never left him.
***
Back in the present, Jennifer didn't realize she was crying until he turned and saw her. The pain in his voice wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. It sat deep, buried beneath every careful word, every pause.
"I lost her because I couldn't stop trying to control the world," he said quietly. "And when she left… I realized I was the one who'd been caged all along."
He looked away, his jaw tightening.
"I thought grief would pass. It doesn't. It just changes shape."
Jennifer didn't know what to say. Only that the man before her — the one the world called untouchable — was still bleeding from a wound ten years old.
And somewhere inside her, something shifted.
Because now she knew: love had never made Vincent Moretti dangerous.
Loss had.
"But you know more about loss than I do, don't you?"
His voice came low, almost casual, yet it carried a weight she couldn't quite name. His back was turned to her, the early light painting the hard lines of his shoulders in pale gold. For a moment—an awful, breathless moment—she froze. Did he know? Had he seen through her carefully woven calm into the jagged ruin of her past?
Her throat tightened, the room suddenly too warm.
Then he spoke again.
"Your parents. Father Andrew."
Relief slipped through her like a shudder. He didn't know. Not yet. She exhaled softly, lowering her gaze.
"I do," she murmured. Her voice was fragile, nearly lost in the soft hum of the coffee maker. "Loss… it's the one thing that never forgets to find me."
He turned then, carrying a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. The faint bitterness of roasted beans mingled with the faintest hint of milk and sugar, a scent both grounding and nostalgic. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, and the warmth that passed between them was more than the coffee's heat.
She took a sip. The flavors bloomed on her tongue—dark, rich, and comforting. A small sound escaped her, a hum of quiet pleasure. "This is good," she said, eyes lifting to his.
He smiled—an honest one this time. "My mother used to say the first coffee of the day decides how your soul behaves," he said, half teasing.
She smiled faintly, but before either could speak again, the soft rhythm of approaching footsteps broke their fragile morning peace.
Carlos appeared at the door, his presence as solemn as ever, though the years seemed to have etched deeper shadows across his face overnight. His silver-streaked hair caught the morning light, and the weight of his silence told Vincent this was no ordinary interruption.
"Sir," he said, his voice gravelly, respectful but heavy, "you have a visitor."
Vincent didn't move, but something in his posture stiffened. He glanced at the clock on the wall—barely seven. Carlos never disturbed him this early.
"A visitor?" His tone was measured, but wary.
Carlos hesitated, then added quietly, "Your mother."