Page 102 of I'm sorry, Princess

The entire structure is sleek, modern, and intimidating as hell. Black, angular, and almost predatory in its design, with sharp lines and massive glass windows that reflect the faint glow of the driveway lights. The architecture is bold, almost too bold, like a challenge to anyone who dares to question the man who owns it.

The entrance is elevated, a few wide steps leading up to an open terrace with hidden lighting that casts an expensive, moody glow over the exterior. The second-floor windows are so large they seem to expose everything inside, but I know better. If Lorenzo Moretti lives here, nothing is exposed unless he wants it to be.

The driveway itself is just as extravagant. Parked outside are two sleek, black cars that look like they belong in a billionaire’s private collection rather than on a driveway. One is a low, aggressive-looking Bugatti with an impossible shine, its curves sculpted to perfection. The other is a black Ferrari, custom-built, with a design so smooth and polished it looks like a weapon in itself. Both cars scream money,power, and recklessness, the perfect reflection of the man who owns them.

I swallow hard as the car I’m in rolls to a stop. The tension in my chest tightens.

He waits exactly two minutes, his patience wearing thin, before his sharp gray eyes flick up to meet mine through the rearview mirror. I don’t move, and neither does he. A slow sigh escapes him, followed by the telltale roll of his eyes.

“I have better things to do,” he mutters, exhaustion dripping from his tone. “Now get out of the car and go inside.”

I hold his gaze, unflinching. “Now, Serena,” he commands, voice dropping an octave.

Okay. That was convincing.

I don’t want him to murder me and dump my body in the middle of this eerie, tree-covered property, so I push open the door and step out. The crisp night air is still, and for the first time, I take in my surroundings. Towering trees surround the house, their dark silhouettes forming a private fortress of nature.

But I’m not focused on the house. I’m focused on the fact that I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do. Do I knock? Announce myself? “Hi, some mysterious stranger kidnapped me here, and I was told to go inside?” Yeah, that sounds about right.

I hesitate before gripping the large, polished door handle and pushing it open. Instantly, the rich, savory aroma of pasta fills the air, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

“Dio, sei bellissima,” a voice hums, soft yet full of life.

I turn, and my eyes land on an older woman, maybe in her sixties. She has elegant silver hair, a face lined with gentle wrinkles, and eyes that radiate kindness. She’s wearinga long dress, her warm smile so genuine it could thaw an iceberg.

Before I can react, she approaches me with open arms and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen slightly, when was the last time I was hugged like this?

“Signor Moretti tornerà presto a casa! Vieni a mangiare, ti piace la pasta?” she asks, her words flowing in melodic Italian.

I blink, trying to decipher what she just said, but it's useless. The only Italian words I know are from a menu.

“Um… I’m sorry, but I don’t understand Italian,” I say, forcing a small, polite smile.

“Oh! I am sorry, dear,” she says, her expression softening. Her English is accented but clear. “Come and eat. Mr. Moretti will be here soon to join you.”

Before I can protest, she takes my hand and gently leads me into the kitchen. My breath catches as I take in the space. The kitchen is enormous, sleek black cabinetry and silver accents gleam under the soft lighting. A massive island sits in the center, surrounded by barstools, and beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, an endless expanse of trees stretches into the night. It’s breathtaking.

She gestures for me to sit at the table, and I hesitantly lower myself into the chair, my body still tense from everything that just happened.

“Bianca,” she introduces herself warmly, placing a hand over her chest.

I exhale, finding a sliver of comfort in her presence.

“What is your name, dear?” she asks gently.

“My name is Serena,” I say softly, a hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice.

I missed this. The warmth of a home, the smell of a home-cooked meal, the simple comfort of someone fussing over me. Of course, I cook for myself, sometimes forSienna, but when was the last time I sat down and shared a meal that felt like… family? The sad truth is, I never have. My mother doesn’t cook, and my father barely attends dinners. The thought is a sharp reminder of everything I never had.

“Serena, sei splendida!” Bianca exclaims, watching me with nothing but kindness in her eyes.

The way she says my name, like it belongs here, like I belong here, makes something tighten in my chest.

“Please tell me if Mr. Moretti ever upsets you,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly as she mutters, “Mi occuperò io di lui se lo fa.”

I don’t understand a word of it, but I catch Moretti and her disapproving tone, so I assume she just threatened to kick Lorenzo’s ass on my behalf. I can’t help but smile. I already love this woman.

Before I can respond, a deep, familiar voice cuts through the room.