Chapter 1 - The Bloodstained Napkin, The Broken Crystal Dish, And The Secret Daughter Buried In His Late Wife’s Past]
Four more plates. That was all I needed to finish serving the head table. But the white linen wrapped around my left hand was already turning red, and every time I lifted a heavy porcelain dinner plate, a sharp, searing pain shot from my thumb directly into my wrist. My fingers were growing numb, losing the faint strength I had left, and the plates seemed to double in weight with every agonizing second. Beneath the towering crystal chandeliers of Luca Moretti’s Chicago estate, thirty-two pairs of wealthy, cold eyes were watching me struggle.
"Careful, Anna. Those hand-painted plates are worth more than your monthly paycheck," Vanessa Bellini sneered, not bothering to lower her voice even an octave.
I tightened my grip, fighting through the dizziness. "Yes, ma'am."
"Then stop trembling like a frightened animal. You're making our guests uncomfortable."
I attempted to set the next plate beside her crystal champagne flute. My injured hand gave out for a fraction of a second. The plate tilted dangerously toward her crimson Valentino silk gown. Vanessa shoved her chair back with an obnoxious screech.
"For heaven's sake! Are you deliberately trying to ruin my dress?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I stammered, lunging forward to steady the porcelain. But my swollen fingers wouldn't close properly. Before the plate could shatter against the hardwood floor, a large, calloused hand caught the edge with effortless, terrifying precision.
"Leave it," Luca Moretti commanded.
He had risen from his seat. At thirty-nine, the head of the Moretti family carried an aura that made rooms go dead silent without him raising his voice. He wasn't looking at the expensive porcelain. He wasn't looking at his furious fiancée. His dark, piercing eyes were fixed squarely on the dark red stain blooming through the folded linen wrapped around my palm.
My name is Anna Parker. I was twenty-eight years old, working as a temporary housemaid at the sprawling Moretti estate, and I had spent the last three hours pretending my left hand wasn't sliced to the bone. Normally, catering an engagement dinner was second nature to me. Tonight, even lifting a fork felt like driving a needle into my veins. But my mother was bedridden with severe pulmonary fibrosis, and her private nurse's payment was due first thing Monday morning. Vanessa had already cornered me in the hallway an hour before dinner, hissing that if I breathed a single word about what occurred in the pantry that afternoon, I would be blacklisted from every domestic staffing agency in the state before sunrise.
So I had cleaned the wound in silence, bound it tightly with table linen, pulled my black long-sleeve maid's uniform over the edge, and marched out into the banquet room.
Luca carefully took the heavy plate from my trembling grip and set it down. "Anna."
My stomach clenched into knots. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"What happened to your hand?"
Before I could force out a fabricated lie, Vanessa let out a melodious, dismissive chuckle. "Oh, Luca, don't make a scene over the help. She broke a glass in the pantry while cleaning up after the florist. Apparently, washing simple dishes is beyond her capability."
A cold wave washed over me. Vanessa had just spoken the forbidden word: the pantry. The exact room she had threatened to destroy my life over if I dared mention it. And the broken glass had nothing to do with florists or drinking cups.
Luca slowly turned his head toward his fiancée. His expression was dangerously still. "The pantry?"
"Yes, darling. She knocked over a tray while the florist was arranging the white roses."
Luca glanced at the massive floral display in the center of the table, then turned his gaze back to Vanessa. "Did you witness it happen?"
"No," Vanessa replied smoothly, adjusting her diamond necklace.
"Then how do you know what she knocked over?"
"She told me, of course."
His gaze shifted back to me. "Did you tell her that, Anna?"
The air in my lungs turned to ash. "Yes, sir." The hesitation in my voice was obvious to everyone at the table.
"Unwrap your hand," Luca ordered softly.
"It's really nothing, sir—"
"Anna. Unwrap it."
With thirty-two socialites staring at me, I slowly peeled away the blood-soaked linen. The deep laceration across my palm was ugly, swollen, and actively weeping crimson. The pressure of lifting the heavy silver platters had torn the flesh open repeatedly.
"Has a doctor seen this?" Luca asked, his jaw tightening.
"No, sir. I couldn't afford to miss my shift."
Vanessa rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Luca, she cut her hand. It's unfortunate, but do we really need to disrupt our engagement celebration for domestic staff drama?"
He completely ignored her. "Anna, the pantry glassware was packed away yesterday morning by the head butler. We didn't use that room for service tonight. Why were you in there?"
The room became suffocatingly quiet. I couldn't answer. To answer meant accusing the woman who was about to become the lady of this house.
"Are you afraid of losing your employment?" Luca asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle beneath its natural steel.
Tears welled up in my eyes. "Yes, sir."
"You won't," Luca stated firmly. He turned to the head housekeeper. "Mrs. Carter, escort Anna to the library, dress this wound immediately, and summon Dr. Harris."
"Luca, this is ridiculous!" Vanessa snapped. "She can put a bandage on herself!"
"Then why did you force her to serve thirty-two guests with an open hemorrhage?" Luca fired back, his voice dropping into a register that made even the men at the table stiffen in their chairs.
I turned toward the double doors, desperate to escape.
"Anna, sweetheart?"
The fragile voice came from the far end of the banquet table. An elderly woman in an understated navy-blue dress was standing up, her frail hands trembling as she clutched a lace handkerchief. It was Mrs. Whitmore, an elderly guest who had sat silently all evening, barely touching her food.
"Sweetheart, did you hurt yourself trying to help me?" she asked, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks.
Vanessa shot out of her chair like a coiled viper. "Mrs. Whitmore, please! Sit down! Anna has already explained everything!"
The old woman ignored Vanessa entirely, looking only at my blood-spattered apron. "I told you not to catch it, dear. You took the blame for me."
Luca walked toward the older woman, pulled out the empty chair beside his own, and guided her gently to it. "Mrs. Whitmore. What happened in the pantry this afternoon?"
"I came to return something to Vanessa," Mrs. Whitmore whispered, her voice trembling. "A wedding ring."
The entire dining hall seemed to stop breathing.
"A ring?" Luca asked, his brow furrowing. "Whose ring?"
"My son's," Mrs. Whitmore wept softly. "Six years ago, Vanessa married my son. He loved her with all his heart. But she abandoned him, took everything, and told the world he was dead. And she came to my home last Tuesday, begging me to hide his wedding band until after your wedding on Saturday, so you wouldn't find out she was already married."
Vanessa’s face turned the color of chalk. "She’s senile! She’s hallucinating! Luca, don't listen to this insanity!"
"Sit down, Vanessa," Luca growled, the darkness in his tone sending a shiver through the room. "Mrs. Whitmore, continue."
I couldn't stay silent any longer. "Mr. Moretti... Mrs. Whitmore came to the pantry because Vanessa summoned her there to threaten her. Vanessa threw a crystal dish at the wall when Mrs. Whitmore refused to take the ring back. The shattered glass was flying straight toward Mrs. Whitmore's face. I jumped in front of her to block it. That’s how my hand was cut."
Luca looked from my ruined hand to his pale, shaking fiancée. The realization struck him like a blow, but the nightmare was far from over.
Mrs. Whitmore pulled a small, worn velvet box from her purse and laid it on the pristine white tablecloth. Beside it, she laid a faded photograph.
"My son adopted a little girl when he was married," Mrs. Whitmore whispered, looking straight into Luca’s stunned, dark eyes. "A little girl Vanessa claimed as her own for three years, only to lock her out of her life when she left. That little girl is nine years old today, Mr. Moretti. Do you know why Vanessa kept her existence a secret from you?"
Luca took a slow, heavy breath, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the mahogany table. "Why?"
Mrs. Whitmore's tears fell onto the linen. "Because that child wasn't a stranger. She was the daughter of Caroline—your late wife. The child Caroline had before she married you, the baby Caroline spent her entire dying breath begging Vanessa to protect."
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The silence that followed was absolute. Luca Moretti stood motionless under the blazing chandeliers, looking at the woman he had promised to marry in forty-eight hours, while the ghosts of his past crashed violently through the gilded doors.
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