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“I need your help.” Leaning against my desk, I try to keep my voice steady. “I want you to look into a family called Morelli. They lived in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.”
“Morelli?” he repeats, his voice laced with curiosity. “What’s the story?”
I glance at the ceiling, where Amelia sleeps soundly. “My…my girlfriend has some history there. Parents died in a boating accident three years ago. But something doesn’t add up. I need to know what they were doing before that.”
“Got it,” he says, typing something in the background. “Do you have any more details? Dates? Addresses?”
I rattle off everything I know. I’m piecing together bits from the articles and her stories that I’m unsure are the truth.
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Lewis replies, his tone shifting from casual to business-like. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Just—” I hesitate.
What do I want? The truth? The whole truth? Or just enough to keep Amelia safe?
“If you can also find out what you can about their lives before they moved to Hilton Head. They’re Italian and came to America ten years ago.”
“I’ll get on with it first thing,” he promises.
We hang up, and I toss my phone onto the desk, rubbing my eyes as fatigue washes over me. It’s late—too late—and all this digging is only adding layers of confusion and worry.
I stroll back to the bedroom, slipping under the covers beside Amelia.
Her hair spills across the pillow like dark silk, and for a moment, I lose myself in watching her chest rise and fall.
She looks peaceful; her face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
One question claws at my mind again.Who is my fiancée?
I’m no better. This engagement might be a fake, but there’s an intimacy developing beneath this façade, and that scares me. Each laugh we share feels genuine; every stolen glance ignites how real this feels.
But what if it’s all a lie for her?
As she stirs in her sleep, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more beneath that surface. If there’s a darkness lurking behind those bright eyes that she hasn’t revealed yet.
Did she agree to my arrangement, not for the money, but for the haven I've given her?
And will her past catch up with us?
The smell of something sweet wafts through the air, pulling me from the depths of sleep. I blink against the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
Squinting, I glance at the clock. It’s early, too early for my usual routine.
I drag my weary body out of bed, following the smell to the kitchen downstairs.
Amelia stands with her back to me. Her hair pulled into a messy bun, my shirt on her gorgeous body. The sight of which stirs something in me—something primal.
“Morning,” she chirps, turning to flash a smile that makes my heart skip.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice still thick with sleep.
She spins back to the stove and stirs whatever is simmering in a pot. The rich aroma fills the room, and my stomach grumbles in response.
“It’s a family recipe,” she says over her shoulder. “My mom used to make it for me when I was little. Her and my dad loved the savory version, but I loved it with berries, and it was always Mom’s treat at Christmas and birthdays.”
With my curiosity piqued, I cross to the kitchen. She turns and offers me the spoon and the moment I taste what she serves; I groan. “This is incredible.”
She beams at my praise. “It’s just a creamy polenta mixed with berries.”