Third Person POV
London always seemed colder at night—its rain whispering secrets against the glass of the restaurant's private suite. Lorenzo La Rosa sat across from his assistant, Elena Williams, the dim light catching the silver watch on his wrist as he lifted his glass of wine. It had been a long day—business meetings, negotiations, and veiled threats wrapped in polite smiles. The life of a man like Lorenzo was never quiet, not even on foreign soil.
Elena had been a surprise to him. Efficient, quiet, sweet in a way few people around him ever were. She handled his schedule, his calls, his temper—and did it all with a grace that made her stand out. She wasn't from his world. not the bloodstained empire of the La Rosa name.
That night after the meeting, he'd asked her to join him for dinner as a thank-you. He remembered the way she'd hesitated before nodding—polite and professional
The dinner began harmlessly. She laughed softly at something he said. He allowed himself to relax, to forget the weight of his empire for just a moment. Then came the wine. He tasted the bitterness first—slight, wrong—and then the world tilted. He remembered the dizziness that hit him soon after—the blurred vision, the sudden rush of heat in his veins.
And then—nothing clear. Only flashes. Skin, breath, her face. Confusion. Then darkness.
When he woke, Elena was beside him in his hotel bed, the morning light cruel in its honesty. Her expression was one of confusion and shame. Neither spoke for a long time. Neither could explain what had happened.
A few days later, she came to his office pale and trembling.
"Lorenzo," she whispered, eyes glistening, "I'm pregnant."
He'd stood there, silent, the weight of her words sinking into him like bullets. He had stared at her, his mind fracturing between rage, disbelief, and something stranger—protectiveness. She'd been there that night, too. What if she had been drugged as well? His enemies had a way of attacking through the innocent.
So he did what any man with a code would do. He married her.
For a while, it was... peace. Maybe even happiness. Their first child, Alessandro, was born under the golden light of an Italian summer. Lorenzo saw himself in the boy—same face, same dark hair—but when he looked into those bluish-green eyes, he saw Elena too. A blend of fire and calm, love and guilt.
Years passed, and with each one, the walls Lorenzo built around his heart began to crumble. He had married Elena out of duty, but slowly—almost against his will—he began to love her. She smiled often in those early years, soft and radiant as sunlight through a window. The house was full of life, laughter, and small chaos that made him forget the violence that waited beyond his gates.
Then came Emilio, their second child, and for a while, life was steady. But after his birth, Lorenzo noticed something change in Elena. She grew distant, quieter. He brushed it off as exhaustion, as the strain of motherhood. He didn't see the shadows yet.
By the time their youngest—twin boys—were born, that shadow had consumed her entirely. The woman he once knew had vanished. She drank more. Smiled less. Her voice was sharp, her affection fleeting. She began to push the children away, regulating their time with her, retreating into herself with a glass always within reach.
The fights began soon after. They were quiet at first, then louder, crueler. Yet after each one, she'd come to him tearfully, promising she'd do better. And he, still hoping to find the woman he once loved, would forgive her.
But hope only lasts so long.
A year after the twins' first birthday, everything shattered. Lorenzo had returned home early from a meeting when he heard the sound—a sharp cry, muffled and broken. He followed it down the hall to the nursery and froze.
Elena stood over Nico, the youngest of the twins, her hand raised. The boy's small face was streaked with tears.
He moved before he thought, grabbing her wrist mid-swing. His voice, cold and deadly, filled the room.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. Drunk. She pulled away, muttering something he couldn't recognize as an excuse. That night, the truth spilled out in screaming accusations, broken glass, and silence.
He learned everything—the affairs, the lies, the reason Nico had grown so quiet, so withdrawn. The betrayal burned through him worse than any wound.
When it was over, the marriage was too.
Elena left, and Lorenzo kept the children. His heart hardened again, colder than before. The house became quiet—too quiet—but at least it was safe.
He thought that was the end of it.
But it wasn't.
Because what neither of them knew was that Elena was already carrying another child.