Sylvia and Luke appear to have the perfect life. A thriving fashion startup, a beautiful four-year-old daughter, and a love that began when they met at Harvard Business School. But beneath the surface, Luke hides a dark secret-he's the heir to one o...
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Panic claws its way up my throat as I throw back the covers. The bed is empty, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth I'd dreamt of sharing with Sylvia. I quickly rush to the stairs, each echoing step giving me flashes of moments I have in these halls.
"Morning, Luca," a voice startled me. I find Matteo leaning against the banister, a sardonic smile playing on his face.
"Matteo," I growled, my voice low and dangerous. "Where are they?"
His smile faltered for a brief moment, replaced by a flicker of something akin to surprise. Maybe he wasn't expecting this level of defiance from me. "Good morning," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock cheer. "Such a dramatic entrance – what's the occasion?"
"Don't play games with me," I snapped, pushing past the pleasantries. "My wife and daughter. Where are they?"
He sighs, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. "They're downstairs, with Mother. Having breakfast, I presume."
My anger simmers down a notch, replaced by a wave of confusion. "She didn’t wake me." I whisper to myself.
"That must hurt,” Matteo chuckles. “Mom was… concerned about Sylvia. She wants to make sure she feels welcome. By the way she acted last night we can assume you didn’t tell her about our existence" Sarcasm laced his words.
My jaw clenched tight. Matteo's casual dismissal of the situation only fueled the fire in my gut. It was always like this, a silent competition for our father's approval, even in the way we treated women.
Our rivalry wasn't born out of jealousy or sibling squabbles. It was meticulously cultivated by our father, a man who thrived on control and dominance. From a young age, we were pitted against each other in everything. Training sessions became brutal tests of strength and endurance, with Enzo's booming voice praising the victor and belittling the loser.
I remember one particularly brutal summer. We were twelve, on the cusp of adolescence, and our father decided swordplay would be the next battleground. We trained relentlessly under the scorching sun, sweat stinging our eyes and exhaustion gnawing at our limbs. Each successful block, each well-placed riposte, was met with Enzo's gruff approval, his words fueling Matteo’s determination.
But then, a misstep. Matteo lunged, his blade aimed for my chest. I instinctively parried, the clang of metal echoing in the stifling heat. But the force of his attack sent me stumbling backward, my ankle twisting beneath me. Pain shot through my leg, a searing agony that brought me crashing to the ground.
A flicker of concern crossed Matteo's face, but it was quickly replaced by a steely glint in his eyes. Before I could react, he raised his sword, aiming for the final blow.
"Enough!" Enzo's voice boomed like a thunderclap. He stood above me, his face a mask of fury. "Matteo, what are you waiting for? Finish him!"
Fear coiled in my stomach, but a defiant spark ignited within me. Despite the throbbing pain, I scrambled to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I wouldn't give Matteo the satisfaction of victory, not while looking so weak.
