Chapter 8 The Name On The Door
Isabella
Mondays are cruel, but this one feels personal.
I’d barely slept—Sofia’s cough had kept me up half the night. the worry clings to me like smoke. Every fiber of me wants to stay home, curl around her small body and keep the world out. But rent doesn’t care about if. Electricity bills don’t forgive mothers. So I drag myself to work, clutching coffee that tastes like ash.
The moment I step into the office, I feel it—an electric shift, the kind that prickles against your skin. Whispers coil in the air, coworkers clustered around screens and smartphones.
“Did you hear? The company’s been acquired.”
“Some Moretti conglomerate—apparently they’ve owned us all along?”
“They’re moving in today.”
Moretti.
The name makes my stomach dip. I know that name—everyone in this city does. The Morettis own half of it. Shipping, construction, finance—they’re the shadow in every ledger. But why here? Why now?
My hands tighten around the strap of my bag as I push toward my desk. The monitor blinks awake, and the official announcement fills the screen.
Effective immediately, Moretti Enterprises assumes direct control of operations…
The letters swim. Something cold drips down my spine.
Because suddenly the walls don’t just feel corporate. They feel personal.
Adriano
The building is mine. Always has been. But today, I let my name step onto its marble floors.
It’s almost amusing, watching the ripple of unease through the office. People fear change, but they should fear me.
I move through the halls like I own the air. My suit is charcoal, sharp enough to cut, my presence a storm they can’t look away from. Whispers hush as I pass, but none of it matters.
I’m here for one reason.
She’s at her desk, shoulders tense, pretending to work but failing. My Bella. My ghost. She looks up as if sensing me, and for a second, our eyes lock.
The world stutters.
Her face drains of color. Confusion, disbelief, fear—every emotion flashes across her features before she smothers them.
Good. Let her feel it.
“Miss Valentino,” I say, my voice steady, measured. “My office. Now.”
Isabella
It’s not possible.
It can’t be.
The man standing before me is polished, untouchable. Adriano Moretti, the name whispered in boardrooms and alleys alike. And yet… the tilt of his head, the burn of his gaze—it’s him. Adrian. My Adrian.
The boy who kissed me under library lights, who held me through laughter and storms. The man I thought burned with the fire six years ago.
My heart claws against my ribs.
I force my legs to move, following him into the office that now bears his name. The door shuts, heavy and final.
I’m trapped with a ghost made flesh.
Adriano
She stands before me, her hands trembling just enough to betray her. She’s braver than most, though—still lifting her chin, still meeting my eyes even as her pulse hammers in her throat.
God, I missed that fire.
“Surprised?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Just stares, like she’s trying to peel back the years with her eyes.
So I give her a gift. A memory.
“Do you remember the bar?” My voice lowers, coaxing. “You sat two stools down, ordered a drink you hated just to look older. I asked your name. You tried to lie.”
Her lips part. I see the exact moment she remembers.
“You told me,” I continue, “your name was Isabella. But you hated how it sounded on other people’s tongues. So I called you Bella.”
Her breath stutters. A crack in her armor.
Yes, Bella. Remember me....
Isabella
My knees almost buckle.
The memory slams into me—laughter, neon lights, the heat of his gaze when he asked my name like it was the only word he ever wanted to speak.
Adrian.
But he isn’t Adrian anymore. The man before me is harder, colder. His suit costs more than I make in months. His eyes, once warm, burn with possession.
“You’re dead,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile—something darker. “Clearly not.”
I stagger back a step. The office feels too small, the air too thick. My heart wants to believe, but my mind screams danger.
Because Adrian Moreau was a dreamer. Adriano Moretti is a king. And kings don’t love—they conquer.
“I’m not here to haunt you,” He says, though every word drips with irony. “I’m here because fate decided six years was long enough.”
My jaw tightens. He wants to ask about the fire. I see the questions flicker in his eyes.
But he doesn’t get to speak. My phone rings
I couldn’t focus on spreadsheets or contracts. Sofia’s fever hadn’t broken, and the babysitter called 911, hearing it made my chest ache harder. My legs gave out but he caught me,I left without a word, didn't notice him following, heart hammering the whole cab ride to the hospital.