Chapter 5 - The East Wing
Three weeks later. Early November.
The estate had transformed completely.
The dark, oppressive atmosphere that had hung over the compound for ten years had vanished like morning fog under a warm sun. The east wing suite—a stunning four-room apartment with parquet floors, high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rose garden—was now our home.
Emma’s room was filled with white furniture, bright yellow curtains, and an entire wall dedicated to her drawings.
As the new Household Manager, I had spent twenty days completely restructuring the domestic operations. I fired the corrupt vendors Vivien had hired, brought in local, honest contractors, and reorganized the staff schedules so no one was overworked or underpaid. The estate was running smoother than it ever had in its history.
On a crisp, sunny Thursday afternoon, I was sitting at the large oak desk in the main administrative office, reviewing the autumn heating fuel contracts.
A light knock sounded on the open door.
I looked up.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway. He was wearing a dark gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up, dark trousers, and no tie. He looked younger, relaxed, the deep lines around his eyes softened by the bright November sun streaming through the windows.
In his hand, he held a small, flat wooden box tied with a gold ribbon.
"Mr. Duca," I smiled, standing up from my desk.
"Lorenzo," he corrected gently, stepping into the room. "We've discussed this, Sophia. In this office, when we are alone, it's Lorenzo."
My heart did a quick, familiar flutter. Over the past three weeks, our professional relationship had evolved into something much deeper, built on quiet late-night conversations in the library, shared coffees in the morning kitchen, and a profound, unspoken mutual respect.
"Lorenzo," I repeated, feeling a soft blush touch my cheeks. "What's that?"
He set the flat wooden box on my desk. "A delivery arrived from Manhattan this morning. It's for Emma."
I approached the desk, looking at the fine mahogany box. "For Emma? From whom?"
"From me," Lorenzo said simply.
I untied the gold ribbon and lifted the polished wood lid.
Inside lay a professional set of forty-eight fine French pastel crayons, housed in velvet-lined slots, alongside a high-grade artist's sketchbook with heavy, textured watercolor paper.
I let out a soft gasp. "Lorenzo... this is too much. These are professional artist supplies—"
"She has talent," Lorenzo said, leaning against the edge of my desk, his dark amber eyes fixed on my face. "And she informed me yesterday during lunch that her green crayon was getting too short."
I laughed—a bright, genuine sound that echoed warmly in the office. "She's three years old, Lorenzo. She draws purple dogs named Barnaby."
"Every great artist starts with a purple dog," Lorenzo murmured softly, his voice dropping into that deep, intimate register that always made my breath catch in my throat.
He reached out, his large hand gently taking mine where it rested on the wooden box. His skin was warm, firm, and grounding.
I didn't pull away.
I looked up into his eyes, seeing no longer the cold, terrifying head of the Duca empire, but a man who had opened his heart, his home, and his life to a widowed mother and her child.
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"Thank you, Lorenzo," I whispered. "For everything. For seeing us when no one else did."
Lorenzo squeezed my hand gently, his thumb tracing the soft skin over my knuckles. "Thank you, Sophia. For bringing color back into a house that was dying in the dark."
