Chapter 3 - THE BLIZZARD AND THE BLACK ARMORED CONVOY
The storm hit the coast with biblical fury just before dawn on Friday.
When I woke up at 5:00 AM, the world outside had vanished behind a howling white wall of wind and driving snow. A three-foot blanket of heavy, wet powder had drifted against the mansion’s wrought-iron gates, burying the access roads and cutting the estate off entirely from the rest of Nashville.
Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was thick with a toxic mixture of excitement and sheer, unadulterated panic. Mrs. Gable was barking orders from the second-floor landing, her voice echoing shrilly through the halls as she whipped the terrified domestic staff into a frenzy.
“The private helicopter couldn't land, but his armored motorcade pushed through the mountain pass before the final drift hit!” Mrs. Gable shrieked, clapping her hands together like a demented drill sergeant. “Mr. Lorenzo Moretti is entering the estate gates right now! If anyone so much as breathes wrong when he walks through those doors, I will personally throw you out into the blizzard naked! Move, move, move!”
I hurried down the service corridor, clutching a bundle of clean linens to my chest, trying desperately to stay out of the crossfire. My back felt like it was splitting in two, and a dull, rhythmic cramping had started low in my abdomen—a warning sign my body was sending me, screaming at me to stop, to lie down, to rest. But stopping meant termination, and termination meant losing every penny I needed for Lily. So I gritted my teeth, swallowed the rising wave of nausea, and kept moving.
At 10:00 AM sharp, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion swung inward with a deafening creak.
The temperature in the grand foyer seemed to drop ten degrees instantly.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the entire household. Every maid, butler, and security guard froze in place, heads bowed, eyes averted toward the polished marble floor.
Through the swirling snow outside strode Lorenzo Moretti.
He was thirty-two years old, standing over six feet tall, dressed in a sweeping black cashmere overcoat that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, woodsmoke, and cold mountain air. His jet-black hair was cut short and sharp, framing a face chiseled out of granite and unforgiving angles. Piercing gray eyes—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of warmth—swept over the foyer like searchlights, taking in every detail of the room in a single fraction of a second.
Directly behind him marched four massive, heavily armed private security operatives dressed in tactical black gear, their submachine guns held at low-ready.
Lorenzo paused in the exact center of the foyer, unbuttoning his coat with slow, deliberate movements.
“My father?” his deep, baritone voice resonated through the silent room, carrying an effortless authority that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Mrs. Gable practically scrambled forward from the front row of bowing servants, her face plastered with the most sickening, obsequious smile I had ever witnessed.
“Welcome home, Mr. Moretti!” she simpered, clasping her hands together beneath her chin. “Your father is resting comfortably upstairs. We treat him like an absolute king here. He receives the very best medical attention, specialized nutrition, and round-the-clock care. We spare no expense!”
Standing near the very back of the room, half-hidden behind a massive marble pillar, I nearly choked on the sheer, staggering magnitude of the lie. Specialized nutrition? Round-the-clock care? He had been eating cold oatmeal and freezing in an attic until I intervened! My hands curled into tight fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.
Lorenzo’s gray eyes narrowed slightly as he looked down at Mrs. Gable. For a terrifying second, I thought he might see right through her sycophantic facade.
Instead, he gave a curt, dismissive nod. “Good. Keep it that way. I have financial restructuring meetings in the west wing study for the next three hours. Do not disturb me unless the house is on fire.”
Without waiting for a reply, Lorenzo turned on his heel and strode down the corridor toward his private study, his tactical guards falling into step behind him like shadows.
The moment the heavy study door clicked shut, the entire staff let out a collective, ragged breath.
Mrs. Gable wiped a bead of nervous sweat from her forehead, instantly shedding her sweet demeanor and reverting to her default setting of venomous cruelty. She spun around, pointing a manicured finger at the nearest housekeepers.
“You heard him! Back to work! There are boots tracking slush in the east wing, and I want those floors stripped and polished before the clock strikes noon!”
Panic surged through my chest. My lower abdomen gave a sharp, violent wrench—a contraction so intense it doubled me over for a split second, forcing a sharp gasp past my lips. I couldn't do it. If I scrubbed another floor today, I knew I would lose the baby.
I stepped out from behind the pillar, my hands trembling as I clutched my swollen belly.
“Mrs. Gable... please,” I whispered, my voice cracking with desperation. “I need... I need to sit down for just ten minutes. Something is wrong—I’m having severe cramps.”
Mrs. Gable stopped dead in her tracks. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. She marched over to me, stopping mere inches from my face, her voice dropping to a harsh, venomous hiss.
“Listen to me, you lazy, ungrateful little parasite,” she spat, her fingers digging cruelly into my bruised shoulder. “I don't care if you’re bleeding out on the floor. Mr. Moretti is in this house, and if I catch you slacking off for even one second, I will throw you out into that three-foot blizzard with the clothes on your back and let you freeze to death. Now get a bucket and start scrubbing the west wing gallery right now!”
She shoved me backward with enough force that I stumbled, my boots slipping on the slick marble floor. I caught myself against a heavy mahogany console table, tears of pain and humiliation spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.
I turned blindly toward the grand staircase, fighting the suffocating wave of dizziness washing over my brain. I couldn't go to the west wing gallery. I couldn't scrub another floor.
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With my legs shaking so violently I could barely feel my feet, I grabbed the polished wooden banister and began dragging myself upward—not toward the east wing, but up, up, up toward the fourth floor.
Toward Room 4B.
