The Three-Month Hunt

My feet felt heavy by the time my shift at Sal’s Diner hit the eight-hour mark. The smell of old grease and cheap coffee clung to my skin like it had soaked into my bones. I shifted my weight, trying to ease the ache in my lower back, and adjusted the oversized apron that was becoming harder to tie.

"Table four needs more water, Isabella. And stop leaning on the counter. You aren’t paid to look tired," Mr. Henderson barked from behind the register.

He was a small man with a permanent scowl and a habit of sweating through his polyester shirts. He knew I needed this job, and he enjoyed reminding me that I was replaceable.

"I'm on it, Mr. Henderson," I said, forcing politeness.

"And do Brenda’s side-work," he added. "She’s on her break."

I glanced toward the breakroom. Brenda had been on her “ten-minute” break for nearly forty minutes. I found her sitting on a milk crate, scrolling through her phone and blowing a bubble with her gum.

"Brenda, Henderson wants the ketchup bottles refilled and the napkins stocked."

She didn’t look up. "My back hurts, Isa. Besides, you’re always acting like a martyr. Do it yourself. It’ll give you something to do besides staring at those fancy cars you think are following you."

I stiffened. "I don’t think they’re following me. I’ve just seen the same SUV three times today."

She finally looked up, smirking. "Nobody driving something that expensive cares about this neighborhood. You’re paranoid. Maybe it’s that flu you’ve been having every morning for three months."

Her eyes flicked to my stomach. I tightened my apron. I was barely twelve weeks along, but my jeans already refused to button, and a firm curve pressed against the fabric.

"Just do your job," I muttered, turning away.

The next two hours blurred together. Ketchup bottles, plates, rude comments from regulars. Every time a car slowed outside the diner window, my heart jumped. For weeks, I’d felt watched. I told myself it was just stress. Just the weight of the secret I carried.

The surrogacy money had already changed everything. Lucia had undergone her first surgery and was breathing easier. My father’s new lawyer had filed an appeal. Things were finally moving forward.

So why did it feel like I was walking toward a cliff?

"Shift's over, Santoro," Henderson said when the clock hit nine. "Try harder tomorrow or don’t come back."

"Goodnight," I said, grabbing my jacket.

The night air was a relief after the heat of the kitchen. I walked the six blocks home with my head down. Streetlights flickered, casting shaky shadows across cracked pavement.

Halfway there, I saw it again.

A black SUV idled at the corner, its windows dark as ink. The low, expensive hum of its engine didn’t belong here. As I passed, it didn’t move. It just watched.

I quickened my pace. It’s just stress, I told myself. The clinic said the clients were anonymous.

I reached my building and ran up the stairs. The hallway smelled like cabbage and floor cleaner. By the time I reached my door, I was breathless.

Then I froze.

The door was ajar. Only an inch but I always locked it.

My blood turned to ice. I pushed it open slowly. The apartment was pitch black.

I felt my way into the kitchen and grabbed the handle of my largest steak knife.

"I have a knife!" I called, my voice shaking. "I’ve called the police!"

I was lying. I flipped the light switch.

The overhead light flickered, then flooded the room with harsh yellow light.

I dropped the knife.

Sitting in my only armchair was a man who looked like he’d been carved by the gods. His suit probably cost more than my entire building. Dark hair. Ice-cold gray eyes.

Lorenzo De Luca.

He didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on my stomach.

"You’ve grown," he said.

I couldn’t breathe. "Lorenzo? How did you find me? What are you doing here?"

He stood, and the room shrank around him. He stepped closer, his eyes dark with something terrifying possessiveness mixed with hatred.

"Your house?" he sneered. "You think I’d let my child stay in this filth?"

"Your child?" I whispered. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"There was no couple, Isabella. There was only me. Did you really think I’d let a Santoro steal my legacy?" His voice dropped. "I’ve spent three months tracking you. Watching you walk to that diner. Watching you sleep."

He was inches away. I could smell his cologne expensive, sharp, familiar.

"You’re insane," I said, reaching for the door.

Before I could touch it, the door slammed shut. Two men stepped from the shadows, blocking the exit.

Lorenzo leaned close, his voice deadly soft. "The games are over. You’re coming with me. You’ll live under my roof. Follow my rules. And give me my heir."

"I'm not going anywhere," I snapped. "You destroyed my family."

"And yet," he said, glancing at my stomach, "you carry my blood."

His hand hovered near my waist, not touching.

"We’re going home, Isabella. And if you resist, remember your sister. One word from me, and she’s homeless by midnight."

He turned away.

"Move," one of the guards ordered.

I looked at the knife on the floor. At the men blocking my path.

I had no choice.

I had sold myself to save my family but I had never agreed to become Lorenzo De Luca’s property.