The teapot hit the marble floor without breaking, but the maid’s scream split my dining room apart. By the time I looked from the burn spreading across Elena’s arm to the woman wearing my engagement ring, I already knew Camille had just shown me exactly who she was—and she had done it in front of everyone.

Over the next two months, the quiet connection between Elena and me grew in ways neither of us could have anticipated.

Her arm healed remarkably well under Dr. Reynolds' care, leaving only a faint, silver scar across her forearm—a scar that served as a silent reminder of the night everything changed.

Although her paid medical leave had ended, I reassigned her from her maid duties in the main house to managing the estate's conservatory and grounds operations—a promotion that gave her her own private office in the east wing and a salary three times what she had previously made.

Every evening at six o'clock, after finishing my work at Moretti Tower, I found myself walking down to the greenhouse instead of going straight to my private study.

We talked about everything.

I learned that Elena had spent two years studying art history at Boston University before her father passed away, forcing her to leave school to help her mother pay off family medical debts. I learned that she painted watercolors in her spare time, and that she dreamed of one day visiting Florence to see the Uffizi Gallery.

In turn, Elena was the first person in fifteen years to whom I spoke about my mother's death, the crushing pressure of carrying the Moretti name, and the terrifying loneliness that came with sitting at the top of an empire where everyone either feared you or wanted something from you.

One rainy Friday night, as thunder rumbled over the estate, I stood beside Elena in the greenhouse while she repotted a rare night-blooming cereus.

"You're standing too close, Gabriel," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she focused on the soil in her hands.

It was the first time she had called me by my first name without adding "sir" or "Mr. Moretti."

"Am I?" I asked, taking a step closer, my hand reaching out to touch the side of her face. My thumb gently wiped a speck of soil from her cheek.

Elena held her breath, her dark eyes looking up into mine with raw vulnerability. "Gabriel... I am just a housekeeper's daughter. People in your world will talk. They will say terrible things about you."

"Let them talk," I murmured, sliding my hand behind her neck, drawing her closer until our foreheads rested against each other. "I spent my entire life trying to satisfy the expectations of dead Moretti men and greedy socialites. I don't care what they say anymore, Elena."

When my lips met hers, it wasn't harsh or demanding like the world I lived in. It was gentle, deep, and filled with a profound warmth that melted away the ice that had encased my heart for decades.

Elena let out a soft sigh against my mouth, her uninjured hand wrapping around my lapel, holding onto me as though she were anchoring herself in a storm.

When we finally pulled apart, her eyes were shining with tears of joy.