The car pulled into the mansion's driveway, the sun now high and unforgiving. Elena sat in the back seat, her injured wrist tucked beneath her sweater, her stained blouse hidden beneath her coat.
She didn't wait for the chauffeur to open the door.
She stepped out quickly, her head down, her movements stiff.
The staff at the entrance offered polite greetings, but she barely acknowledged them.
She walked through the grand foyer, past the marble staircase, past the soft hum of distant conversation.
Brittany spotted her from across the hall.
"Elena?" she called gently.
But Elena didn't stop.
She offered a faint wave, a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes, and continued toward the east wing.
Her suite.
Her silence.
She closed the door behind her, locked it, and leaned against it.
Her wrist throbbed.
Her blouse was ruined.
She peeled off the coat, then the shirt, revealing the angry bruise blooming across her skin—purple, swollen, raw.
She stared at it.
Then she walked to the bathroom, ran cold water, and pressed a towel against it.
No tears.
Just quiet.
She changed into a soft cotton dress, pulled her hair down to cover her face, and curled up on the chaise by the window.
Outside, the garden swayed gently in the breeze.
Inside, Elena stayed still.
She didn't want to be seen.
Not today.
The suite was quiet.
Elena lay curled on the chaise, her bruised wrist wrapped in a towel, her dress loose and comfortable, her hair falling like a curtain around her face.
Then came the knock.
Soft.
Gentle.
"Elena?" Brittany's voice floated through the door. "It's me."
Elena sat up slowly, tucking her injured wrist beneath a throw pillow, smoothing her dress.
She walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it just enough to reveal her face.
Brittany stood there, tablet in hand, her expression warm but curious.
"I saw you come in," she said. "Everything okay?"
Elena nodded quickly, her smile faint but practiced. "Yeah. I was just feeling a little too tired at school. Decided to come back early."
Brittany tilted her head slightly. "Tired?"
Elena nodded again. "It's been a long week. I think my body's just catching up."
Brittany didn't press.
She smiled gently. "That's understandable. You've been through a lot. Just rest, okay?"
"I will," Elena said softly.
Brittany hesitated for a moment longer, then turned. "Let me know if you need anything."
Elena closed the door slowly, the click echoing in the quiet.
She leaned against it again, her smile fading.
She walked back to the chaise, sat down, and looked at her wrist.
Still swollen.
Still hurting.
But hidden.
Just like everything else.
She stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying the voices from earlier.
"She probably thinks she's some tragic little virgin."
"She sold herself."
"Now she wants sympathy?"
The words echoed.
Pierced.
They weren't just cruel.
They were calculated.
And they hurt.
More than she expected.
She sank her head into the pillow, her fingers clutching the edge, her breath catching.
She had never stood up for herself.
Not once.
Not when they whispered.
Not when they laughed.
Not even when she bled.
She had swallowed it all—every insult, every shove, every look.
And now, it was too much.
The tears came suddenly.
Hot. Silent. Relentless.
She sobbed into the pillow, muffling the sound, her body trembling.
She wasn't weak.
She knew that.
But she wasn't brave either.
Not yet.
And that truth broke her.
She cried for the girl who stayed quiet.
She cried for the bruise on her wrist.
She cried for the words that stuck like thorns in her chest.
And when the tears slowed, she lay still.
Empty.
But honest.
The sun had dipped low, casting amber light across the mansion's long corridors. The dining room was set—crystal glasses, silver cutlery, soft candlelight flickering against the polished wood.
Elena sat curled on her chaise, still in her dress, her wrist wrapped beneath a loose sleeve.
A soft knock came at her door.
One of the house staff peeked in gently. "Miss Elena… dinner is ready. Mr. Moretti is already seated."
She hesitated.
Her body felt heavy.
Her heart, even more so.
But she nodded. "I'll come."
She entered the dining room quietly, her steps slow, her expression composed. Luca sat at the head of the table, dressed in a crisp shirt, his posture relaxed but alert.
He looked up as she entered.
"Elena," he said simply.
She offered a faint smile and took her seat, carefully placing her left hand in her lap, using only her right to lift her fork.
They began to eat.
The silence was comfortable—until it wasn't.
Luca's eyes narrowed slightly.
He watched her movements.
The way she avoided using her left hand.
The way she winced, just barely, when reaching for her glass.
He set his cutlery down.
"What's wrong with your other hand?" he asked.
Elena paused.
She didn't look up.
"It's nothing," she said quietly, trying to shift the conversation.
But Luca didn't move.
He didn't pick up his fork again.
He just watched her.
"Elena," he said, firmer now. "What happened?"
She swallowed.
The candlelight flickered.
And her silence spoke louder than any answer.
Elena kept her eyes on her plate, her right hand moving slowly, her left still tucked beneath the table.
Luca hadn't touched his food since asking.
She could feel his gaze.
"It's nothing," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just… fell at school."
Luca didn't blink.
He leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but unyielding.
"Let me see your left hand now, Elena."
She hesitated.
Her breath caught.
But slowly, she lifted her arm and placed her left hand on the table.
The sleeve slipped back slightly, revealing the swollen wrist—purple, raw, bruised.
Luca's eyes darkened.
He looked at the injury.
Then back at her.
"Who did that to you?"
Elena looked down, her fingers trembling.
"I told you… I fell."
Luca stood.
The chair moved back with a soft scrape.
His voice was low, but it carried weight.
"Who did this to you?"
Elena flinched.
Her heart raced.
"…a… schoolmate," she whispered.
Luca didn't speak right away.
He just stared at her, the silence thick with tension.
Then he stared at the bruise, his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.
And he spoke.
"I'll handle him. Or her."
Elena's eyes widened.
"No, no, please Mr. Moretti… don't do anything," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "It's not serious. It'll heal in no time."
Luca didn't move.
His voice was low, but firm.
"Nobody messes with the woman carrying my heir, Elena."
Her breath caught.
Her eyes lit up—not with joy, but with shock. With something deeper. Something she couldn't name.
Still, she pleaded.
"Please, Mr. Moretti… for… the child's sake. Do not do anything."
The room fell into silence.
The candles flickered.
The tension hung heavy in the air.
Luca looked at her for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"You won't be going back there."
Elena blinked. "What?"
"You'll learn from home," he said. "I'll have everything arranged."
He stood up, his dinner unfinished, his chair pushed back with quiet finality.
And without another word, he walked out of the dining room.
Leaving Elena alone.
Her wrist aching.
Her heart racing.
And her world—once again—changed.