CHAPTER TWO: The Man Who Requested Me
952 Words
By morning, I'd convinced myself Maya was wrong.
There had to be another Aria West.
A famous one.
A better one.
Maybe an award-winning journalist who covered wars and political scandals instead of hidden beaches and overpriced resorts.
Because there was absolutely no reason Lucas Moretti should know who I was.
Yet there I was, standing in the West Magazine office three days later with a folder tucked beneath my arm and a growing sense that I'd made a terrible decision.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped in.
The familiar scent of coffee, printer ink, and stressed journalists greeted me immediately.
Home sweet home.
Some of my coworkers came over asking about my wellbeing, not that they all cared.
They knew the reason I took a month off and were interested in hearing what was the latest news.
"Look who finally showed up." I heard a familiar voice tease.
I glanced up even though I knew who it was.
Maya was coming my way carrying two coffees.
Her dark curls were piled on top of her head in a chaotic knot that somehow looked intentional.
"I was here ten minutes ago." I lied.
"You were seven minutes late, still."
"Who's counting?"
"I am."
She handed me a cup which I took gratefully.
"Any chance you've discovered this entire assignment is an elaborate prank?" I asked, taking a sip as we head to her office.
"No."
"Damn."
Maya grinned. "You're nervous."
"I'm curious."
"Same thing."
It wasn't. Curiosity made me ask questions, nervousness made me imagine answers.
Unfortunately, I was doing both.
We entered her office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan, giving us a clear view of the endless skyscrapers.
The room itself was bright, modern, and smelled faintly of expensive coffee. The space was quiet, sharp, and felt completely cut off from the busy streets below.
Most people found the view inspiring.
I found it exhausting.
Travel had ruined cities for me.
Once you'd watched the sunrise from a fishing village in Malta or eaten breakfast on a cliff overlooking the Aegean Sea, glass towers lost some of their magic.
Maya sat behind her desk.
I remained standing. "Tell me everything."
She slid a file toward me. "That's everything."
I opened it and a photograph stared back.
It was Lucas Moretti. The image had clearly been taken by a professional photographer.
Expensive suit.
Perfect lighting.
Confident expression.
The kind of photograph designed to convince investors to hand over millions.
I wasn't impressed.
Travel writers learned quickly that photographs lied.
The most beautiful beach I'd ever visited smelled like sewage.
The friendliest resort owner I'd ever interviewed turned out to be laundering money.
What about Ethan? Who would've believed the company's soft heart was a two-faced cheat?
Okay, Aria take a chill pill— although it cemented this truth:
Paradise was marketing.
People were stories—and stories were usually messy.
I flipped to the next page and I froze.
There were notes attached.
Private. Confidential. Not for publication.
"What's this?"
Maya leaned forward. "The reason you're getting paid an obscene amount of money."
I kept reading.
Lucas Moretti.
Thirty-six.
Founder and CEO of Moretti Horizons.
Luxury resorts across Europe.
Private aviation.
Hospitality empire.
Estimated net worth—
I stopped reading.
The number was ridiculous.
Nobody needed that much money.
Nobody.
"Any scandals?" I asked.
"No."
"That's suspicious."
"Agreed."
I continued scanning.
Then I found it. A paragraph highlighted in yellow.
The smile slowly disappeared from my face.
"What?" Maya raised an eyebrow.
I read it again, and again.
Lucas Moretti had not granted a personal interview in over six years.
Six. Years.
Not one.
Not for magazines.
Not for television.
Not for podcasts.
Nothing.
Yet somehow he'd agreed to six weeks with me.
"That's impossible."
"Apparently not." Maya intercepted, already guessing what I had seen.
I looked up. "Are we sure he requested me?"
"Very sure."
I stared at the page. The mystery that had seemed mildly interesting three days ago was beginning to bother me.
A lot.
Because I couldn't remember him.
Not properly.
Yet something about the name felt familiar, like a song I knew but couldn't place.
A memory lingered just out of reach. "Is it that article from three years ago?"
Maya immediately smiled. "Bingo! I knew you'd remember eventually." She beamed.
"I haven't remembered anything."
"You've started asking the right questions."
I narrowed my eyes.
"I hate it when you do that. You're right, it was three years ago."
She opened a drawer.
Pulled out a magazine and dropped it on the desk.
My stomach sank instantly as I recognized the cover.
Forgotten Europe: Hidden destinations tourists overlooked.
It was one of my best-selling features.
"What about it?"
"Page sixty-four."
I flipped through the magazine.
Found the page.
Then everything clicked.
This particular page wasn't about forgotten destinations.
Not really.
It was about a struggling coastal village in southern Italy. A place saved from economic collapse after an anonymous investor funded a restoration project.
I remembered writing it.
I remembered being fascinated because nobody knew who the investor was.
No publicity.
No interviews.
No ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Nothing.
Just millions of dollars quietly donated.
At the bottom of the article was a single name.
Lucas Moretti.
I stared at it, then at Maya.
Then back at the page.
For some reason, my pulse had quickened. Why was his name there?
"Now do you understand why this matters?" Maya asked, jolting me from my thoughts.
Maybe, maybe not.
But one thing was becoming painfully clear.
I wasn't the only one who remembered that article. Hell, I can barely recall how I wrote that.
But Lucas Moretti remembered it, and somehow, after all these years...
He'd come looking for me.
- Writer
