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In the open kitchen, under the soft glow of the overhead light, stood Lorenzo Moretti—CEO of a billion-dollar empire. A man who never even poured his own glass of water, was now standing in front of a skillet, sleeves rolled to his elbows, designer slacks wrinkled. His jaw was clenched in focus, brows drawn in frustration as smoke curled up from the pan.

The stovetop hissed, oil popping loudly under his clumsy handling. A faint burn mark glowed red on the side of his hand—one of many.

Mrs. Smith, the housemaid who had served his family for decades, watched helplessly from a few steps away. Her heart ached at the sight. He’d burned himself again. Tenth time, she counted silently.

She rushed forward, unable to hold back any longer. “Mr. Moretti, please—let me cook. Why don’t you just cut up the ingredients, and I’ll handle the rest?”

Lorenzo shook his head, frowning at the older woman.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said, guiding her carefully a few steps back by the shoulders, “I said I’ll do it. Just stay here… guide me through it. Step by step. I have to make this for Krystal.”

His voice trailed off as a memory came rushing back. Her words echoed in his head, heavy with pain:

‘You were always standing on the other side of the wall. And I was always on this side, waiting. You never saw what it felt like to wait for someone all day. Every time it rained heavily, or the sun scorched, or snow piled too high, I’d hope that maybe thistime, you’d worry about me and come home instead of waiting for me to come to you.’

His grip around the pan tightened, knuckles paling. Guilt twisted like a vice in his chest. He had thought distance would protect her—from his guilt, from Esther, from the mess of his past. But all it had done was make her suffer.

And now she was gone.

‘Now that I’ve lost her and she refuses to come back, I realize I can’t even function without her. I didn’t even see how much she did for me until she said those words.’

Chapter 25 Uninvited Guest

So lost in his thoughts, Lorenzo didn’t register his hand drifting too close to the hot skillet again—until pain seared through his skin.

“Damn it,” he hissed under his breath, jerking his hand back. He turned off the burner, the room falling into a tense silence.

Without another word, he walked over to the dining table and planted his unburnt palm on its surface. His other hand curled loosely at his side, still red.

Larry raised an eyebrow as Lorenzo locked eyes with him.

“I want Krystal back,” Lorenzo said, voice low but determined.

Larry exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re such a damn drama. Cold as ice when she was trying to love you. And now, when she’s finally done, you’re losing your mind.”

Lorenzo didn’t even blink. His voice was steady, stripped of ego. “I messed up. I know that now. But I’m not pretending anymore. I mean it. Help me.”

Before Larry could answer, Lorenzo’s phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up: Esther.

His face darkened.

He answered the call with ice in his tone. “Esther, I told you not to call me. If you need anything, talk to Xander.”

Esther’s voice cracked through the speaker, desperate and rushed. “Lorenzo, please... meet me. I’m sorry for lying about being sick. But you’ve been so cold lately. Do I really deserve this? I’m in love with you. Please don’t punish me like this. Are you really cutting me off like this?”

Lorenzo’s tone stayed firm. “I told you already. It was a one-time mistake. I’m married. I have a wife. I’ll never marry anyone else.”

“But didn’t you get divorced?” Esther questioned immediately.

Lorenzo’s jaw tensed. His next words were a growl. “Even if Krystal isn’t my wife legally, she’s the only woman I’ll ever call my wife. I don’t care what the papers say. I won’t marry anyone else.”

He didn’t wait for Esther to respond. He ended the call and tossed the phone on the table with a dull thud.

Across town, Esther sat hunched on the edge of her pristine white bed, her manicured fingers trembling as they clutched her phone like a lifeline. The screen had gone dark, but she still stared at it, as if willing it to light up again with his name.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, smudging the edges of her eyeliner. Her breaths came out shallow, uneven.

Her voice was barely audible, more to herself than anyone else—frantic, broken, and scattered. “He’s really done with me? After everything I’ve done to get him these past two years? I can’t lose him. I won’t.”