CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

ELENA

Eight suitcases.

That’s how much of my life I’d stuffed into rolling leather and zippered fabric, every single one lined up at the bottom of the staircase like I was preparing for exile.

“Seriously?” Aria’s voice slithered down the stairs before her body did. She leaned on the banister, lips curling like the devil’s pet. “Eight? No wonder Adrian couldn’t carry you either. Always too much baggage.”

I froze mid–zip. My blood boiled, but my hands stayed steady. “At least mine isn’t spread out between other people’s beds.”

Her smirk faltered for one second—one glorious second—but she recovered fast. “Keep telling yourself that. We both know Adrian never wanted you. I was just better.”

“You mean cheaper.” I snapped the last suitcase closed with a violent tug and turned to face her. My palm still tingled from the slap I’d given her earlier. God, I wanted to do it again.

She sauntered closer, eyes sparkling with malicious delight. “You think leaving makes you stronger? It makes you pathetic. No one wants you, Elena. Not Adrian. Not Dad. Not even—”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A new text flashed across the screen.

Lucian Moretti: Send me your address. I’ll send a driver.

My lips curved before I could stop them. Oh, Aria. You really shouldn’t have played this game with me.

“Keep talking,” I told her sweetly, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “Every word just proves how desperate you are.”

She rolled her eyes. “Desperate? Please. Adrian is mine now. He always was.”

“Good luck with that,” I said, dragging the first suitcase toward the door. “May you choke on his lies.”

Before she could spit another venomous word, the deep rumble of an engine cut through the air outside. Tires screeched against the pavement, followed by the unmistakable purr of money.

I yanked open the front door.

A stretch limousine—black, sleek, and gleaming like sin—pulled up in front of the house. A chauffeur in a pressed suit stepped out and gave me a polite nod.

“Miss Rossi?” he asked, voice crisp.

I swallowed a laugh. “That’s me.”

Aria’s jaw hit the floor. “What the hell—”

“Boss sends his regards,” the driver said smoothly, already moving to load my suitcases into the trunk.

“Boss—what?” Aria sputtered, her voice breaking.

I didn’t answer. I just turned, lifted both middle fingers high in the air, and gave my whole damn family the salute they deserved. Dad’s face turned purple. Stepmom gasped like I’d murdered the Pope. Aria looked like she’d swallowed her own ego.

It was glorious.

But the second I slid into the back of that limo, the door shutting me away from their glares, the cracks in my armor gave way. My chest caved. Tears stung my eyes. My throat burned.

I’d just walked away from everything. My family. My home. The girl I’d been for twenty-two years.

And for what?

A gamble. A man whose name was whispered like both a curse and a prayer.

Lucian Moretti.

The seats smelled like leather and danger. I curled into the corner, hugging my knees, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. The driver didn’t look back. He didn’t ask questions. Maybe that was the perk of being owned by someone like Lucian—silence wasn’t just expected, it was survival.

My phone buzzed again.

Lucian Moretti: They see you leave?

I sniffled, typed back.

Elena: Front row seats. Aria looked like she swallowed glass.

A minute later:

Lucian Moretti: Good. Let them choke on it.

Despite myself, I laughed through my tears. Bitter, broken laughter that cracked out of me like lightning splitting a tree.

My family had turned their backs on me. Adrian had humiliated me. Aria had betrayed me. My father had slapped me. My stepmother had spat on me.

But Lucian?

He’d sent a limousine.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the city roll by. My reflection stared back at me—makeup smeared, eyes swollen, hair a mess. Not a princess. Not a victim. Just a girl who’d been broken, pieced back together with fury, and delivered into the hands of a man who was both salvation and destruction.

The tears didn’t stop, but this time, they weren’t from pain.

They were from freedom.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t weak little Elena, the “easy twin,” the “curvy mistake.” I wasn’t my father’s pawn or Adrian’s consolation prize.

I was Elena Rossi, the girl who’d just flipped off her entire family and driven away in a billionaire’s limousine.

And something told me this was only the beginning.

The driver didn’t ask for directions. He already knew where to take me. Of course he did. This was Lucian Moretti’s world, and I was stepping straight into it.

I hugged my knees tighter, my phone buzzing again in my hand.

The elevator doors slid open with a hush, and I swear my lungs forgot how to work.

Lucian Moretti’s penthouse.

It was sleek. Clean lines, dark marble floors that gleamed like they’d never seen a speck of dust, and walls of glass that framed the city skyline like a painting. It smelled expensive too—something masculine and understated, like leather, whiskey, and money.

I dragged my suitcases in, half expecting some security guard to tackle me for breathing too hard. Instead, silence. Just silence and space.

There were two bedrooms, both massive, both drowning in more luxury than my entire family home. I chose the extra one, because duh, I wasn’t delusional enough to claim the master suite. Not yet.

“Okay, Elena,” I muttered to myself as I dumped my stuff. “New chapter. New life. No crying in billionaire penthouses.”

My stomach growled in protest. Apparently, humiliation and heartbreak burn calories.

So I headed to the kitchen. Which, by the way, wasn’t a kitchen—it was a freaking showroom. Stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than my college tuition, marble counters smooth as glass, and a fridge that looked like it had been imported from the future.

“Let’s see what the almighty Lucian eats,” I said, yanking open the fridge.

Answer: expensive things. Imported cheeses, bottles of wine that belonged in a museum, fresh vegetables that looked like they’d been kissed by angels.

Fine. If I was going to cry in his penthouse, at least I’d do it on a full stomach.

I cooked. And not just a sad grilled cheese. No, ma’am. I went full Italian grandmother. Pasta from scratch, roasted chicken, sautéed vegetables, garlic bread, salad with a vinaigrette that would make Gordon Ramsay cry. The works.

By the time I was done, the counters looked like a magazine spread. And then I… left it. Just left it there on the island like some weird offering to the god of chaos who’d dropped into my life.

“Bon appétit, Moretti,” I muttered, heading back to my room.

Laptop. Bed. Reality check.

I flipped the screen open, the glow washing over my tired face. One click into my banking app, and there it was.

Eight. Million. Dollars.

I stared at the number like it might bite me. That was mine. Mine. Despite my father’s insults, despite Aria’s smug little smirk, despite Adrian’s betrayal.

Because unlike them, I actually knew what the hell I was doing.

“Thank you, Computer Science and Business Management degree,” I whispered, bowing my head in mock prayer. “And thank you, COO position that Daddy dearest thought he was dangling like a carrot but actually gave me real power.”

I snorted. The truth was, my father couldn’t fire me if he tried. I’d been running half of his operations while Aria played dress-up at galas and Adrian warmed her bed. The company survived because of me, because I didn’t just talk—I got the job done.

And now? Now it was time to stop surviving.

I clicked into my stock accounts, scrolled through the numbers. Solid. Stable. But boring. I wanted more. I wanted something that screamed watch me burn and rebuild.

So I dove into the tech forums I’d always lurked in but never had time to fully play with. Code threads. Startup pitches. Investors sniffing around like vultures.

“Let’s see…” I muttered, fingers flying. “Crypto’s a mess. AI’s hot but oversaturated. But cyber-security? Oh, baby. That’s the sweet spot.”

I typed faster, heart pounding. Ideas sparking like fireworks. I wasn’t just a girl with heartbreak baggage and a billionaire shadow now. I was Elena freaking Rossi, and I was about to carve my own empire.

My fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up data, algorithms, competitors. My brain switched into overdrive, running scenarios, calculating margins, strategizing exits.

The door opened with a smooth click, and I didn’t even have to look up from my laptop to know it was him.

Lucian Moretti carried an atmosphere with him.

“Hi,” I said, closing the lid of my laptop and offering a cautious smile. “You’re back.”

No reply.

He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it onto the sofa, and walked past me like I was air. Straight to the counter, where my food waited, untouched. He poured himself a drink like this was his home. Well, okay—technically it was.

But still. Rude.

“You’re ignoring me.” I folded my arms, watching him sip whiskey like he was married to the glass. “Why?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

I blinked. “Did you hit your head on the way up here or are you just being—”

He snapped. The sound of glass hitting marble made me flinch.

“Are you really this dumb, Elena?” His voice was low, sharp, venom coiled in velvet. “Do you honestly think we’re together?”

My stomach dropped. Then heat rushed in, fiery and ugly.

“You know what?” I shot back, standing. “Fuck you, Lucian. I’m not some pathetic little charity case you get to bring home, feed, and pat on the head.”

His eyes darkened, pinning me harder than his hand ever could. “You came here, Elena. You begged for this.”

“I didn’t beg—”

“You did,” he cut me off, stepping closer, towering. “And now you’re angry because I’m not holding your hand and whispering sweet lies like Adrian used to?”

That name. That goddamn name.

“Don’t,” I hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare say his name to me.”

He smirked, cruel. “Sensitive, aren’t we?”

I lost it. “God, you’re such an arrogant bastard! Do you get off on acting like you don’t care? On playing the cold, untouchable king? Newsflash, Lucian—being an asshole doesn’t make you mysterious. It makes you pathetic.”

The next second, I was against the wall.

My back hit the cold surface, his hand braced by my head, his body a wall of heat pressing into me. My breath caught, trapped between fury and something far more dangerous.

His voice dropped, steel wrapped in silk. “Careful, Elena. You’re playing with fire you can’t control.”

“Oh, please.” My laugh was sharp, bitter. “You think I’m scared of you? I’ve had worse monsters in my bed.”

His eyes flared. And then he leaned in, lips grazing my ear.

“If you don’t want me to fuck the hell out of you,” he whispered, “you should leave. Right now.”

I tilted my head, caught his gaze, and let the words roll off my tongue like a dare.

“Scopami allora.”

(Fuck me then.)