Chapter 4: Moretti House

The Moretti mansion did not look like a home. It looked like a fortress built for beautiful secrets. Black iron gates opened silently before a long driveway lined with winter trees and golden lights. The house stood on a private hill outside Manhattan, overlooking the city like it owned every glowing window below.

Scarlett sat quietly in the back of Alexander's car, her hands folded in her lap. She had not cried. She was afraid that if she started, she would never stop.

Alexander sat beside her, giving her space without abandoning her. That small courtesy unsettled her more than his power.

'Why are you doing this?' she asked at last.

He looked at her. 'Because I made a promise.'

'To whom?'

'Your grandfather.'

Scarlett's throat tightened. William Whitmore had been the only person who loved her without conditions. He had died six months after her accident, and after his funeral, her life had become a locked room.

'He never mentioned you,' Scarlett said.

'He wanted you far away from my world.'

'Then why bring me into it now?'

Alexander's jaw tightened. 'Because your world became worse.'

Inside the mansion, staff members greeted Scarlett with quiet respect. No one stared at her wheelchair. No one offered fake sympathy. A room had been prepared for her on the ground floor, with wide doors, soft lighting, and windows facing the garden.

On the vanity sat a framed photograph of her grandfather. Beside it was a sealed envelope with her name written in his handwriting.

Scarlett's breath caught.

Alexander stood by the door. 'He asked me to give you that when you were ready to stop surviving and start fighting.'

Scarlett reached for the envelope with trembling hands.

For the first time in two years, she wondered if her story had not ended with the accident. Perhaps it had begun there.