Isabella couldn't stop staring at the locket.
She sat on her bed, turning the small piece of jewelry over in her hands. The woman in the photo had her eyes, her nose, her chin. It was like looking at herself twenty years from now.
Mrs. Russo had called her Isabella's mother. But that was impossible. The only mother she knew was Clara Rossi, the kind woman who had raised her.
Isabella's head began to throb again. The harder she tried to remember, the more everything hurt.
The next morning, Isabella knocked softly on Matteo's bedroom door. Mrs. Russo had assigned her to clean his private quarters, and Isabella's stomach twisted with nerves.
"Come in," came his deep voice from inside.
Isabella entered the room slowly. It was larger than she'd expected, decorated in dark colors with expensive furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the mansion's gardens.
Matteo stood near the windows, already dressed in a black suit. He was talking on his phone in rapid Italian.
"No, I don't care what he thinks," he said harshly. "The deal is final." Isabella tried to make herself invisible as she began dusting the furniture. She'd learned to move quietly around the mansion, like Mrs. Russo had taught her.
"Yes, tomorrow night will be fine," Matteo continued. "But if he's late again, there will be consequences."
As he talked, Isabella found herself stealing glances at him. Away from the formal dining room and his cold office, he seemed... different. More human. She noticed the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was frustrated, how his jaw clenched when he was angry.
He finished his call and turned around, catching her looking at him."Is there something you need?" he asked.
"No, sir. I'm just cleaning." Isabella quickly looked away, focusing on the nightstand.
She reached for a stack of books, but her hand accidentally knocked over a framed photo instead. It fell to the floor with a loud crash.
"I'm so sorry!" Isabella dropped to her knees, gathering the pieces of broken glass. "Leave it." Matteo's voice was sharp.
But Isabella was already picking up the photo, trying to brush glass off of it. It showed a beautiful woman with long dark hair and a gentle smile. She was holding a young boy who looked like Matteo.
"I said leave it." Matteo knelt down beside her, reaching for the photo.
Their hands touched as they both grabbed for it at the same time. Isabella felt a strange shock run up her arm at the contact.
They were so close she could smell his cologne. Could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"She's beautiful," Isabella whispered, looking at the photo. "Is this your mother?" Something painful flickered across Matteo's face. "Yes."
"What happened to her?"
"She's dead." He stood up abruptly, moving away from Isabella. "And it's none of your business."
Isabella felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." She continued cleaning up the glass, but her hands were shaking now. As she reached for the last piece, the sharp edge cut into her palm.
"Ow!" She jerked her hand back, watching blood well up from the cut. "You're bleeding." Matteo was suddenly kneeling beside her again.
"It's fine, just a small cut" But he was already taking her hand in his, examining the wound. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
"It's deeper than it looks," he said. "You need to clean it." Isabella started to stand up, but the room suddenly spun around her. She swayed, feeling dizzy.
"I'm fine," she insisted, but even as she said it, black spots danced in front of her eyes.
The next thing she knew, she was sitting on Matteo's bed with him crouched in front of her, holding a glass of water.
"Drink this," he ordered. Isabella took a sip, feeling slightly better. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."
"When was the last time you ate?"
She had to think about it. "Yesterday morning, I think?"
Matteo's expression darkened. "You haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours?"
"I wasn't hungry," Isabella said quietly. It wasn't entirely true. Mealtimes at the mansion were irregular for servants, and she often forgot to eat when she was nervous.
"That's why you fainted." He stood up, walking to his bedside table. "Here."
He handed her a small first aid kit. "Clean the cut and bandage it. Then go to the kitchen and eat something."
Isabella looked up at him in surprise. His voice was still commanding, but there was something softer in his eyes.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
As she wrapped the bandage around her palm, Matteo picked up the broken picture frame from the floor. He stared at the photo of his mother for a long moment.
"She was murdered," he said suddenly. "When I was twelve."
Isabella's hands stilled on the bandage. "I'm sorry."
"The men who killed her made it look like an accident. A car crash." Matteo's jaw clenched. "But I knew the truth. My father knew the truth. We could never prove it."
"That's terrible."
He looked at her then, really looked at her. "You remind me of her sometimes. The way you move when you think no one is watching. Like you're afraid to take up too much space."
Isabella felt something flutter in her chest. "Is that why you... why you brought me here?"
"No." Matteo set the photo down on his dresser. "I brought you here because I need to know who you really are."
Before Isabella could ask what he meant, another wave of dizziness hit her. She gripped the edge of the bed, trying to steady herself.
"Easy," Matteo said, sitting down beside her. "Put your head between your knees."
His hand rested on her back, warm and steadying. Isabella felt herself relaxing despite her confusion.
"Better?" he asked after a moment.
Isabella sat up slowly, nodding. "Yes, thank you."
They sat in silence for a moment but Isabella was very aware of how close he was, how his hand was still on her back.
"I should go," she said quietly.
"Yes," Matteo agreed, but neither of them moved.
Isabella turned to look at him. "Why are you being kind to me?"
"I'm not being kind," he said quickly. "I'm being practical. I can't have you collapsing all over my house."
But his hand was still gentle on her back, and his eyes were softer than she'd ever seen them.
Suddenly, a memory flashed through Isabella's mind. She was small, maybe five years old, sitting on a man's lap while he read her a story. The man had kind eyes and a deep voice, and he smelled like expensive cologne, just like...
"Oh!" Isabella gasped, the memory hitting her like a physical blow.
"What is it?" Matteo asked, alarmed.
But Isabella was already standing up, backing away from him. The room started spinning again, but this time it wasn't from hunger.
"I remember," she whispered. "I remember someone reading to me. Someone who smelled like you do."
Matteo went very still. "What else do you remember?"
Isabella closed her eyes, trying to focus on the memory. "He used to call me his little princess. He had a study that looked like yours. And he..."
She opened her eyes, staring at Matteo in shock.
"He looked like the man in your photo. Antonio Moretti."
For a moment, neither of them breathed as Isabella stumbled backward, reaching for the doorknob. "I need to go."
"Isabella, wait"
But she was already running down the hallway, clutching the locket in her pocket and wondering why her heart felt like it was breaking for a man she couldn't even remember.