Chapter 121 IN MY MOTHER'S ROOM

Chapter 121 IN MY MOTHER'S ROOM


~ELENA~

The morgue is colder than death itself

Not just the temperature—but the kind of cold that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones.

The moment I step inside, my knees threaten to give out.

White walls. White floors. White sheets. Everything feels wrong. Too clean for death. Too quiet for grief. Everything smells like chemicals and loss.

My heart starts pounding wildly as the attendant pulls back the sheet.

And there she is.

My mother.

She looks smaller than I remember. Paler. So still it feels wrong….unnatural. My breath leaves in a broken gasp.

“Mom…” My voice comes out as a broken whisper.

I step closer slowly, like I’m afraid she’ll vanish if I move too fast.

Then I see the bruises.

Dark marks bloom along her arms. Faint discoloration at her neck. Her face is peaceful, but her body tells a different story.

My chest caves in.

“No…” I choke.

I reach out with trembling fingers and touch her hand.

Cold. Too cold.

A sob rips out of me before I can stop it.

“No,” I sob. “No, no,no.”

My knees give way. I collapse beside the metal table, clutching my mother’s hand like I could warm it with my own body.

“No, please,” I cry, tears dropping to my knees as I kneel beside her. “Please wake up. I'm back. Your daughter is back.”

My tears fall onto her skin as I clutch her hand with both of mine, pressing it to my cheek.

“You promised me,” I sob. “You promised you’d be here. You promised we’d talk. You can’t leave me alone again.”

My body shakes violently as grief consumes me whole.

“I already lost Dad,” I whisper through my tears. “I can’t lose you too. Please… come back. I still need you, mom.”

Tears soak my face as I trace the bruises with shaking fingers, my mind screaming questions I dare not speak aloud.

Who did this to you?

Why didn’t I protect you?

I clutch my mother’s hand tighter. “Please come back,” I beg. “I’ll do anything. I’ll stay. I won’t fight. I won’t ask questions. Just come back to me.”

My words echo uselessly in the sterile room.

But she doesn’t move. She never will.

There is no answer. Only silence.

The realization shatters something deep inside me.

I scream.

It’s raw. Broken.

Vincenzo is suddenly there.

He kneels beside me, pulling me gently into his chest as I shake violently, my sobs raw and unrestrained. He wraps his arms tighter around me, holding me as I fall apart.

Riccardo crouches on my other side, one hand steady on my back, the other cradling my head protectively but gently.

Nico stands behind me, his own eyes burning as he rests his hand on my shoulder, grounding me.

“She’s gone,” I sob. “She’s really gone.”

“I know,” Vincenzo whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I know, my love.”

Riccardo’s voice breaks. “She loved you so much.”

I shake my head violently.

“I should’ve stayed. I should’ve known something was wrong. She looked at me like—like she knew something bad was going to happen.”

My cries turn into desperate gasps as I clutch Vincenzo’s shirt, as if he is the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.

“I don’t have anyone anymore,” I whisper.

“You have us,” Nico says firmly. “Always.”

I lift my tear-streaked face, eyes hollow with grief.

“I want justice,” I whisper—not to them, but to myself.

Vincenzo stiffens slightly but says nothing.

He knows.

We all do.

This wasn’t an accident.

But for now, I lean forward one last time and bury my face against my mother’s lifeless hand, pressing a trembling kiss to her skin.

“I love you mom. I’ll find the truth,” I whisper to her. “I swear I will.”

Behind us, Lorenzo stands near the door.

Watching. Silent.

His face is unreadable. But I don’t look at him.

Not yet.

Because I know now, deep in my bones, that my mother didn’t just die.

She was taken.

And the man who may have done it is standing right behind me.



We return back to the mansion. The house feels wrong without her.

Too quiet. Too still. Like it’s holding its breath.

“I need to go into my mother's room” I tell Vincenzo.

“Her room must be locked by now,” he replies.

“And without Father's permission, I don't think anyone can go in,” Nico adds.

“Please,” my voice breaks. “I need to go in.”

Vincenzo sighs, then brings out some bunch of keys from his pocket, singles one out and gives it to me.

“Be careful, Lorenzo must not know you're inside her room,” he tells me. “Lock yourself inside once you are in.”

I take the key from him and smile a sad smile.

“Thank you so much,” I mutter.

“Do you want us to come with you?” Nico asks.

“No, I wish to be alone,” I tell him.

“Be good, Elena,” Riccardo says and I can hear the concern and worry in his voice.

I nod my head and turn to walk away from them.

Every step I take down the hallway feels heavy, my feet dragging as if my body knows where I’m going and doesn’t want me to get there.

I’ve lived under this roof for some months, yet there are some doors I have never opened.

And one of them is my mother’s room.

My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.

For a moment, I hesitate—afraid that opening it will make everything real in a way I’m not ready for. Afraid that her scent will still linger. Afraid that it won’t.

I take a deep breath, insert the key, and push the door open.

And my breath catches.

The room is… beautiful.

Not extravagant. Not loud. Just quiet elegance.

Soft cream walls glow faintly in the afternoon light streaming through tall windows dressed in sheer white curtains.

A neatly made bed sits in the center, covered in pale beige sheets and a cashmere throw folded with care.

A small vanity rests by the window, simple and uncluttered, a single perfume bottle placed beside a jewelry box.

There’s a bookshelf…modest, organized….with novels, journals, and a few poetry books stacked neatly.

Fresh flowers sit in a crystal vase on the bedside table.

Everything is calm. Controlled. Tasteful.

And painfully lonely.

My chest tightens.

She lived like this?

In silence. In beauty. In captivity.

A gloriously decorated prison.

The realization hurts more than I expect. She had everything money could buy, yet nothing that truly belonged to her. No laughter. No warmth. No freedom.

No daughter.

My vision blurs as I step further inside locking the door behind me.

I walk toward her bed, my fingers grazing the edge of the bed as if touching it might somehow bring her back.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the empty room. “I should’ve come sooner.”

My eyes move slowly, scanning every corner….memorizing her space like this is the last piece of her I’ll ever have.

And then I see it.

A picture frame on the wall.

My breath stutters.

It’s us. Me and my mother.

The same picture I have inside my locket. The one she gave to me.

Her arms wrapped around me. My head resting on her shoulder. We’re both smiling….soft, genuine smiles, like the world wasn’t so cruel in that moment.

I walk toward it as if pulled by something stronger than grief.

Carefully, reverently, I lift the frame from the wall.

My fingers tremble as I trace her face in the photo, my thumb brushing over her smile like I can feel her warmth through the glass.

“You loved me,” I whisper brokenly. “You really did.”

I turn the frame over. And my heart stops.