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"Solid logic," I mused, recalling how the tabloid wolves had feasted on my gaunt frame last time, hinting at rehab stints and secret sorrows. They can spin their yarns; I'll stick to the shadows.
No Facebook, no mobile to claim as my own—I'm a ghost in this digital age, a whisper on the wind. Patrick's generosity keeps me invisible, his name shielding mine, his bank card fuelling my existence. He's the lifeline I cling to in the riptide that is my past.
And Aela, that angel? The first true mate I made here, brewing coffee and secrets in the same joint that nearlymade me tardy today. Six months of lattes and hushed conversations before we traded digits. Not long after, I played Cupid, flinging her straight into Patrick's waiting arms.
A match made in heaven, they were. Both are privy to the chapters of my life that read more like a crime thriller than a fairytale. But fame has a price tag; 'El' became a fixture in the gossip rags once Patrick's empire soared. Niko, my flesh and blood, remains a phantom—no one knows of the boy who doesn't exist.
Except for Yvonne, our guardian angel in nanny form, paid for by Patrick's boundless generosity. Every penny I've bled for, yet he foots the bill for our survival. My days are a blur of appointments, errands, and events—all to keep the Murphy machine oiled and purring.
Niko, my world, schooled in our sanctum, far from prying eyes and probing questions. Born in silence, swaddled in solitude, with only Aela by my side—no midwife, no records. YouTube and sheer will saw us through the stormy birth. I wouldn't recommend childbirth, let alone solo missions fuelled by internet tutorials.
But it was all for him—for Niko. To shield him from Matteo's reach, to cloak his existence in shadows. If Matteo ever discovers the life I've built from his ashes, it'll be more than just late coffees and missed tubes I'll worry about.
"Hey, El?" Patrick's voice snaps me back to the now. My fingers click like a metronome gone mad in front of my face. Reality check.
"Sorry," I mutter, shaking off memories like a wet dog. "Got lost in the past."
He chuckles a sound that doesn't belong in this concrete jungle. "Get your butt to your desk and find something to wear tonight."
"Yep, will do!" I bolt from his office, the afterburn of urgency propelling me. At my desk, hands fly over the phone to dial Yvonne. "Yonnie, can you look after Niko tonight? Got roped into an event with Patrick."
"Of course, El." Yvonne's voice is a warm blanket, but her following words are a cold splash. "Maybe one of these days you'll snag a husband at one of these shindigs."
"Not gonna happen," I shoot back, a laugh slicing through. "Heart's been off the market for a decade. Maybe I'll reel in a one-night catch."
"Girl, if you're itching, my brother's been begging to be your scratch post." She's cackling now.
"Fuck off, hanging up now!" I growl, but there's a smirk tugging at my lips.
"Have fun, El." Her laughter follows me as I cut the call.
I dive into the next task—armor for tonight's battle. Bella Louise answers on the first ring, sweet and crisp. "Can I help you?"
"Morning, it's El here from Murphy’s Real Estate. Need my usual by 4 pm, got it?"
"Of course, El." The attendant's voice buzzes with excitement. "Just in—a black and gold gown, floor-length, tight sleeves, high neck. Your style."
"Perfect," I say, a plan forming. "Thanks." I hang up.
Bella Louise knows the drill. Eight years of dressing me for war. They know every curve, every scar I hide beneath silk and sequins. Tonight's no different. A sheath of shadows toblend into the night, gold to glint like a blade under chandelier light. Power and control are stitched into every seam.
Running from Sydney fueled my insatiable craving for tattoos, an addiction that gripped me tightly. My arms were already a canvas of ink, stretching from shoulders to wrists, each design a story of my escape. London beckoned me next, where I surrendered to a sprawling masterpiece that began on my back and spilled onto my belly and ribs in scattered patterns. Matteo's hand had meticulously etched every tattoo on my arms, binding me to him in ways I couldn't escape. To conceal his artistry, long sleeves became my shield, even under the scorching summer sun. Sacrificing comfort for secrecy, I bared short skirts instead, knowing Matteo's reach would falter as long as my arms remained hidden. A decade of evasion taught me one harsh truth - no matter how far you run, fate has a way of catching up with you.
Chapter Four
Matteo Ricci
The wheels of the private jet kiss the tarmac, and my heart's a jackhammer in my chest. Twenty-one goddamn hours and Eleanor's face is seared into my brain. That photo - her eyes, the curve of her lips - is like a siren’s call, pulling me through hell's time zone to claim what's always been mine.
"Boss?" Angel's voice is a distant buzz, but I'm still lost in those eyes; that knowing smirk says she's seen more darkness than most can handle.
"El," they're calling her now. A decade hiding in plain sight, working for some big-shot developer in London. But every picture's her arms covered, like she's clinging to secrets meant only for me. She's changed, fleshed out in all the right places, each curve a promise of sin. Filled or not, those tits are mine. All of her, every inch, every scar, mine to reclaim.
I stagger off the plane, the need for a drink gnawing at my insides, an itch I can’t scratch. The car's there, sleek and black, idling like a predator. No waiting, no bullshit. That'show we roll. But my stomach's a twisted mess, threatening to spill over.
"Boss, you okay? You're looking a little green around the gills," Angel probes, eyeing me with that mix of concern and mockery only he can get away with.
"Need a drink," I mutter through clenched teeth. My throat's parched, craving the burn.