Chapter 70 Lorenzo

Chapter 70 Lorenzo
Paperwork becomes meaningless after the first hour.

Numbers I’ve reviewed a thousand times refuse to stay in place, contracts bleeding into one another as my pen pauses too often above the page. The office is immaculate—too immaculate. Dark wood desk polished to a mirror shine, floor‑to‑ceiling windows framing the city below in precise, orderly lines. Everything is exactly where it belongs.

Everything except my thoughts.
They keep circling back to one thing.
Ivy.

The way she looked at me the last time we spoke. Not angry. Not accusing.

Just… distant.

That distance hurts more than fury ever could. Anger can be fought. Distance just festers.

I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to look back down at the report in front of me. Focus. Control. Discipline. The same rules that carried me through negotiations, through wars of influence, through bloodless victories that still ruined lives.

They fail spectacularly when it comes to her.

I let out out a sigh. At least she took the sweater I gifted her. If she wears it, only time will tell.

A knock breaks the silence.

“Come in,” I snap, sharper than intended.

The door opens and Enzo steps inside, tablet tucked under one arm. He’s composed as ever—dark suit, measured steps, eyes that miss nothing. If there’s one person I trust to bring me the truth without sugarcoating it, it’s him.

“You asked for an update,” he says, closing the door behind him.

I straighten slowly. “Yes.”

He studies my face for a fraction of a second, then decides there’s no point softening what he’s about to say. Typical Enzo.

“She misunderstood you.”

The words hit harder than they should—because some part of me already knew.

“How,” I ask, my voice dangerously controlled.

Enzo taps his tablet, then lowers it. “She believes you’re in love with someone else.”

Something tightens in my chest. “Who.”

“Rose.”

The name tastes wrong the instant it leaves his mouth.

I let out a short, humorless laugh and lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s absurd.”

“That’s what she believes,” Enzo says carefully. “No evidence beyond the assumption. No proof. Just a conclusion that settled and was never corrected.”

Because I wasn’t there to correct it.
Because I thought silence would protect her.

I scrub a hand down my face. “I’ve met Rose once.”

Enzo’s brows lift slightly.

“Once,” I repeat, sharper now. “She made an advance. I shut it down. Immediately. I didn’t entertain it. I didn’t encourage it. I didn’t even think about her afterward.”

The room feels suddenly too small.

“She was never anything,” I continue, rising to my feet. “Not a choice. Not a temptation. Not even a complication worth remembering.”

Enzo nods slowly. “Ivy doesn’t know that.”

“No,” I agree. “She wouldn’t.”

I move to the window, palms braced against the glass, staring down at the city. Cars move below like blood through veins—ordered, purposeful. Everything flowing the way it’s meant to.

Unlike this.

“She thinks I chose Rose over her,” I say quietly. The words feel wrong in my mouth. “That I wanted someone else.”

“She believes your distance meant preference,” Enzo confirms. “Not obligation. Not strategy.”

That does it.
Something fractures.

I turn sharply from the window, pacing now, unable to stay still. “I stepped away to protect her. To keep her out of reach. And she decided that meant my heart belonged elsewhere?”

My hands curl into fists. “I would have burned the world before choosing Rose over Ivy.”

Enzo doesn’t interrupt. He knows better.

“So she forgave the wrong crime,” I mutter. “And condemned me for one I never committed.”

“If you want to fix this—” Enzo begins.

“I do,” I cut in immediately. Too fast. Too intense.

“Then you’ll have to tell her,” he says calmly. “Not defend yourself. Not justify. Just tell her the truth.”

I stop pacing and turn back toward the desk—the scattered papers I haven’t truly seen all day.

“I will,” I say. The words aren’t loud, but they’re absolute.

Because misunderstanding is dangerous—but distance is fatal.
And if Ivy believes my heart belongs to someone else…

That lie ends now.

The office feels tighter the longer I stand there. Too clean. Too controlled. Every surface polished, every document aligned—yet my thoughts refuse to settle.

She thinks I love Rose.

The idea twists in my chest like a blade. Not fatal. But constant. Damaging. And worst of all—unnecessary.

“There’s one more thing,” Enzo says.

I look up sharply. “If it’s another assumption, I don’t need it.”

“It’s not,” he replies evenly. “It’s an invitation.”

He reaches into the folder under his arm and places an envelope on my desk—heavy cardstock, embossed, elegant. The kind of thing that announces power without saying a word.

I don’t touch it yet.

“Decline it! My Dona is not even giving me a chance and I am not going to party and pretend everything is okay!” I bark at him but he gives me a smirk. 

“To Ivy’s birthday celebration,” Enzo continues. “At the estate. Weekend affair.”

My jaw tightens.

“William approved it,” Enzo adds. “Which means security is airtight. Your presence wouldn’t be unexpected.”

I finally pick up the invitation. The paper is warm from his hand as I open it, skimming details I barely register.

Garden dinner.
Greenhouse unveiling.
Celebration.
Ivy.

“This might be your opening,” Enzo says.

“Showing up uninvited would only reinforce what she already believes,” I reply.

“Not if you show up correctly,” he counters.

I look at him sharply.

“She thinks you chose Rose,” Enzo continues. “Not because of anything you said—but because you never clarified what you didn’t feel.”

I exhale harshly. “Silence again.”

“Exactly,” he says. “So don’t be silent this time.”

My mind is already moving now—fast, sharp, obsessive. A birthday. A moment meant for honesty. For family. For truth.

“She won’t listen if I corner her,” I mutter. “She’ll shut down.”

“Then don’t corner her,” Enzo says. “Give her proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That Rose was never a rival,” he replies. “That your absence wasn’t preference. That your distance wasn’t love for someone else.”

Something cold and decisive settles in my chest.
A plan.

“William will be watching,” I say.

“He always is,” Enzo replies. “But you need to get on his good side. From what I found out, all her brothers are very fond of her.”

I look down at the invitation again—at her name written in elegant script.

A birthday isn’t just a celebration.
It’s a line in the sand.
I close the envelope decisively.

“Prepare everything,” I say. “If I do this, I do it properly.”

Enzo allows himself a faint smile. “I’ll handle it.”

When he leaves, I remain standing there, invitation heavy in my hand.

Ivy thinks my heart belongs elsewhere.

That ends now.

Because misunderstandings thrive in silence—
And I am done letting silence speak for me.