Chapter 2

The November wind cut through my coat as I walked past the gate.

Luca’s driver straightened beside the car. I kept walking until I reached the main road and flagged a cab.

My phone vibrated before we reached the hotel.

Bianca.

Elena, please don’t fight with Luca because of me. I’ll tell the investors I can’t use Bellavista. If they withdraw, I’ll manage somehow.

Another message followed.

He just feels responsible for me. After what happened to my parents, he can’t bear to see me struggle. Please don’t blame him for having a good heart.

I stared at the screen.

She carried a handbag worth more than her first year’s tuition. My mother had bought it after Bianca cried about never having anything that was truly hers.

I blocked her number.

The next morning, I went to Bellavista.

Black cars lined the drive. Two men I didn’t recognize stood outside the entrance. Through the glass doors, I could see workers covering my wedding floor plan with tables and display cases.

A banner above the staircase read BELLINI IMPORTS.

They had even replaced the roses I had chosen with Bianca’s favorite white orchids.

“I own this property,” I told the men. “Move.”

One touched his earpiece.

“Mr. De Luca’s orders. Nobody enters without Miss Bellini’s approval.”

“Miss Moretti,” I corrected him. “That’s my sister’s legal name. And yours had better be on my security company’s payroll.”

Neither man moved.

Bianca came out in a cream silk dress, a folder clasped against her chest. She looked fragile enough to break in the wind.

“Elena, don’t make this difficult for them. Luca was afraid you might disrupt the meeting.”

She came closer, lowering her voice.

“He says you already have a family, an inheritance, a husband waiting for you. Would sharing one thing really hurt?”

“Get out of my way.”

I raised my hand to push the folder away from my chest.

Before I touched her, Bianca screamed.

She stumbled backward, dropped the folder, and hit the paving stones. Contracts scattered across the steps.

Luca came through the doors at a run.

He shoved between us. His arm struck my shoulder hard enough to knock me off balance, and my ankle folded beneath me.

“Bianca!”

He crouched beside her, asking where it hurt.

She clung to his sleeve.

“Please don’t be angry with Elena. She’s upset. I should never have come.”

Luca looked up at me.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t touch her.”

“I saw her fall.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

I struggled to stand. Pain shot up my leg. Luca’s gaze dropped to my ankle, and he half rose, one hand reaching toward me.

Then Bianca gasped and tightened her grip.

He stopped.

That small movement hurt more than the fall.

“This ends now,” he said. “She’s using Bellavista. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

He helped her inside.

I sat on the bottom step and called my estate manager.

“Cancel the Bellini Imports booking. I didn’t authorize it.”

“Mr. De Luca made the arrangements himself.”

“He doesn’t own Bellavista. Send him the cancellation and have our security team take over. His men are refusing to let me into my own house.”

“I’ll call the security contractor now.”

“Tell the event staff to arrange collection of their things. Any further access goes through you, with my approval.”

After we hung up, I booked a cab to the pharmacy. My ankle was swelling, and I couldn’t put my weight on it.

While I waited, my phone lit up with the family group chat.

My mother had transferred ten thousand dollars to Bianca’s business account.

For your first proper launch. We’re so proud of you.

My father replied almost immediately.

Whatever you need, sweetheart. Your parents trusted us to take care of you.

Bianca sent a photograph of herself beside my staircase.

Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

When she first came to live with us, she was ten and I was eight. I gave her the bedroom with the balcony because she said the smaller room made her feel trapped.

Later, I paid for her education from my trust. I signed the guarantee on her first business loan. When she failed, I paid that too.

There was always one more way I could prove I was grateful to be alive.

A new email appeared.

It was from the private commercial consortium that handled legitimate shipping contracts for six of the families.

My application for its European freight partnership had been transferred to Bianca at my sponsors’ request. The attached proposal still carried the route forecasts and risk models I had spent six months preparing.

Only the applicant’s name had changed.

My father was one sponsor. My mother controlled the trust that supplied the other.

Below it was a second email, from the insurer reviewing my European proposal.

I had requested the original records of the warehouse fire because an old claim remained attached to our company’s name.

The archivist had found a discrepancy.

The preliminary incident log recorded both Bellinis dead at 2:46 a.m. My rescue was recorded at 3:17. A separate entry referred to an unidentified adult rescuer receiving treatment.

She was checking the original timestamps and would send certified copies to our family attorney when the file was complete.

I read the times again.

For sixteen years, I had been told not to trust what I remembered.

Now there was a reason to ask who had taught me that.