Chapter 2 - WAKING UP
When awareness returned, it came in quiet, gradual stages.
First came warmth—a blessed, encompassing heat that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Then came softness beneath her body: high-thread-count cotton sheets that felt luxurious beyond anything she had ever known.
The subtle scent of clean linen and that same masculine sandalwood cologne lingered in the air, accompanied by the faint aroma of fresh flowers and rich coffee.
Faith slowly opened her eyes. She found herself in a master bedroom that looked as though it belonged in an architectural magazine.
Cream-colored walls were adorned with original oil paintings. Floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in heavy silk, filtering the morning sunlight into a soft golden glow. The bed was immense, piled with plush pillows and covered in a duvet so light it felt like sleeping under a cloud.
Panic struck her like a physical blow.
Where was she? Who had brought her here?
She reached down under the covers and realized her damp nursing scrubs were gone. In their place was a silk nightgown she had never seen before. Someone had undressed her, cleaned her, and placed her in this bed. The realization made her skin prickle with vulnerability, even as her rational mind acknowledged that whoever had done it had saved her life.
Faith sat up too quickly. The room spun, blood rushing from her head.
On the mahogany nightstand beside the bed sat a glass of water, two pain relievers, and a folded note written in precise, elegant handwriting:
For the headache. You are safe. Rest.
The authoritative tone of those few words made her heart skip a beat. It wasn't pure fear, but a complex mix of apprehension and instinctive fascination—the primal response of a prey animal recognizing a predator that had chosen to protect rather than destroy.
Beside the note lay her phone. It was fully charged. When she turned the screen on, a flood of missed calls and notifications appeared from Vincent.
The messages started with angry demands, asking where she was and why she had walked out. Then, as the hours passed, they devolved into panicked apologies as he realized she was truly gone. Rebecca had called as well, leaving tearful, self-serving voicemails that made Faith’s stomach twist. She muted the device and set it face down.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
“Miss Buchanan?” A gentle female voice called out, heavily accented in Italian. “Mr. Moretti asked me to check on you. I have brought fresh clothes.”
Mr. Moretti.
The name meant nothing to Faith, but it carried an undeniable weight. It sounded traditional, powerful, and deeply rooted.
“Come in,” Faith said, pulling the silk robe she found at the foot of the bed over her shoulders.
An older woman entered. She looked to be in her sixties, with graying hair tucked into a neat bun and kindly eyes. She carried an armful of pressed garments.
“I am Maria,” the woman said with a warm smile. “I take care of the household. Mr. Moretti was very concerned about you last night. He found you near his establishment, nearly frozen. Poor child. What were you doing out in such a terrible storm?”
Maria’s genuine warmth broke through Faith’s guarded exterior. Before she could stop herself, the whole humiliating story spilled out: Vincent’s long-standing manipulation, the betrayal, her lack of savings, and her desperate wandering through Little Italy.
Maria listened in quiet empathy, occasionally shaking her head and muttering cross expressions in Italian.
“Men like that have no honor,” Maria said firmly when Faith finished. “But Mr. Moretti is not like your former fiancé. He brought you here, had his private physician verify that you were suffering no lasting lung damage from the cold, and instructed us to ensure you wanted for nothing. This is how a real man behaves.”
Faith wanted to ask more about her host, but Maria moved briskly, setting out the clothes and explaining the layout of the estate.
Mr. Moretti had departed early for business but would return around midday. Faith was free to rest, use the private library, or walk through the conservatory. There were no demands, no conditions, and no subtle hints of repayment.
As Faith dressed in a simple cashmere sweater and tailored trousers—garments that fit her with astonishing precision—she tried to process her situation.
In her experience, men who rescued women from back alleys were either saints or opportunists. Saints were exceedingly rare. Yet an opportunist would hardly provide soft clothes, medical care, and a respectful housekeeper.
She stepped out of the bedroom to explore the hallway. The residence was vast and quietly opulent. Original hardwood floors gleamed beneath antique Persian rugs. Built-in shelves held thousands of leather-bound volumes in several languages.
On a console table sat several silver-framed photographs. Faith paused to examine one. It showed a younger man in a crisp military-style uniform. His features were sharp, his jawline square, and his dark eyes possessed an intense, unmistakable focus.
May you like
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—measured, deliberate, and unhurried. It was the stride of a man who commanded every space he entered.
Faith turned slowly as the heavy double doors at the end of the hall swung open.
