Chapter 6 - The Unexpected Sanctuary
With the Vance threat neutralized, peace returned to the Moretti estate.
However, the dining room incident had left an undeniable mark on the estate's atmosphere. The staff, though relieved that Camille was gone, remained noticeably tense whenever I walked through the house. They were accustomed to powerful people who treated them like inventory, and even though I had punished Camille, my reputation as a cold, unforgiving man kept them at a distance.
One rainy afternoon, I walked down to the estate's glass greenhouse—a massive structure located at the edge of the east gardens, filled with rare tropical orchids, ferns, and white roses that my late mother had planted decades ago.
As I opened the heavy glass door, the smell of damp earth and blooming jasmine filled the air.
Sitting on a small wooden bench near the white rose bushes was Elena.
Her left arm was still wrapped in clean white bandages, but she was holding a pair of garden shears with her right hand, carefully trimming dead leaves from a potted orchid. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, her dark hair tied back in a loose braid.
She froze when she heard my footsteps, nearly dropping the shears.
"Mr. Moretti!" she gasped, quickly standing up and smoothing her dress. "I... I'm sorry! I shouldn't be here! I was just... the doctor said walking in the warm air would help my recovery, and I love the orchids..."
"Relax, Elena," I said, walking over to the bench. "You don't need to apologize for being in the greenhouse. It's open to everyone who lives on this estate."
She looked at me nervously, her dark eyes wide. "Are you sure, sir? Your father used to forbid the staff from entering the greenhouse."
"My father has been dead for ten years," I said, looking around at the lush green leaves. "And this greenhouse was built by my mother. She believed flowers were meant to be enjoyed by anyone who took the time to care for them."
Elena smiled timidly, sitting back down on the bench. "Your mother was a very kind woman, sir. My mother told me stories about how Mrs. Moretti used to bring soup to the staff quarters whenever anyone fell ill."
"She was," I agreed, sitting on the opposite end of the wooden bench. "Unfortunately, I inherited more of my father's disposition than my mother's."
Elena looked at me closely, her expression softening into something unexpected. "I don't think that's true, Mr. Moretti."
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"
"A man who inherits only his father's cruelty wouldn't have stood up for a maid," Elena said softly, looking down at her bandaged arm. "You ruined a powerful political marriage and risked a multi-million dollar business merger just to protect me. No one in this city has ever done anything like that for someone like me."
I looked at her, noticing for the first time the delicate curve of her jaw, the warmth in her dark eyes, and the quiet, immovable dignity she possessed—a dignity that Camille Vance, with all her diamonds and silk dresses, could never hope to possess.
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"You are not 'someone like me,' Elena," I said quietly. "You are a human being inside my home. And as long as you are under my roof, no one touches you."
A blush rose to her cheeks, and for the first time since the night of the teapot, she let out a soft, genuine laugh that echoed beautifully through the glass house.
