CHAPTER THREE: The Rabbit Hole Called Lucas Moretti
1057 Words
I spent the next forty-eight hours doing what any responsible journalist would do.
I stalked Lucas Moretti on the internet.
Professionally, of course.
My laptop sat open on the kitchen counter while I paced my apartment in an oversized sweatshirt and mismatched socks.
A half-eaten carton of ice cream occupied one corner of the counter. Three empty coffee cups occupied the other.
The ice cream was for the heartbreak.
The coffee was for Lucas Moretti.
Neither was helping.
"How are you real?" I muttered at my screen.
The internet loved Lucas Moretti.That much was obvious.
Business magazines called him visionary, travel publications called him revolutionary and financial analysts called him a genius.
And yet somehow, despite owning one of the largest luxury travel brands in the world, there was surprisingly little personal information about him.
No scandals.
No public relationships.
No embarrassing interviews.
No drunken yacht photos.
Nothing.
The man was practically a myth, which was suspicious.
Everyone had a scandal.
Everyone.
I clicked another article. The headline read:
HOW LUCAS MORETTI REDEFINED MODERN LUXURY TRAVEL
The accompanying photograph showed him standing on a yacht deck.
Dark navy suit, white shirt, and the beautiful ocean behind him.
He looked directly at the camera, confident, composed and untouchable.
I hated him immediately. Mostly because he looked like the kind of man who never experienced awkward silences or embarrassing moments.
The kind of man who probably woke up looking expensive.
My phone buzzed, grabbing my attention.
It was Emma, my best friend.
I answered.
"Please tell me you've showered today."
I blinked twice. "Hello to you too."
"That's not a no."
I glanced down at myself. "... Define showered."
Emma's groan made me chuckle. "Aria."
"I'm researching."
"You've been researching for two days."
"I'm a journalist."
"You're obsessive."
"Occupational hazard," I quipped, knowing she was tired of hearing that phrase— just as much I was tired of her law jargon.
I heard her sigh.
"How's the billionaire?" she asked dryly.
"I don't know."
"You've spent forty-eight hours reading about him."
"Exactly."
"That makes no sense."
I closed another tab. "That's because there isn't much to read."
"Impossible."
"That's what I thought."
I sank onto a stool.
"Emma, this man owns hotels, resorts, yachts, private aviation companies—"
"Rich people's hobbies." She chipped in.
"And yet nobody seems to know anything about him."
That finally got her attention. "What do you mean?"
"I mean they are rare interviews, but they're all business-related."
"Okay."
"No family details."
"Mm-hmm."
"No relationships."
"Interesting."
"No personal stories."
Emma laughed. "So he's either incredibly private or secretly Batman."
I smiled despite myself. "Batman probably gives more interviews."
"Fair point."
I glanced back at the screen.
Another article, another carefully curated photograph, another version of Lucas Moretti.
None of them felt real.
Travel writing had taught me something important.
The most interesting stories were always the ones people tried hardest to control.
And Lucas Moretti seemed very controlled.
Which meant there was something underneath.
There always was. The question was what.
"You're excited." Emma's voice interrupted my thoughts.
I frowned. "I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
“You've done more research on this man than you ever did on Ethan.”
That shut me up, because unfortunately she was right.
“Well, this man is a mystery.” I tried to joke, failing miserably.
"How are you doing?" Emma spoke more gently.
I stared out the apartment window, watched how the city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Busy. Bright. Uncaring.
"I'm fine."
"Lie."
I sighed. The problem with best friends was that they knew things, things you wished remained hidden.
"I'm getting there."
"Translation?"
I hesitated and I laughed quietly.
"Sometimes I still expect him to call."
Emma didn't respond immediately.
"I know."
"I hate that."
"I know, however I'm grateful to whoever sent you those photographs three weeks before that mistake of a marriage took place."
I rubbed my forehead, wishing I could lose this memory.
For months, I'd been living inside a future that no longer existed.
Wedding plans.
Apartment hunting.
Conversations about children.
Entire versions of my life erased by one photograph that he couldn’t deny.
The worst part wasn't losing Ethan. It was losing the life I'd imagined with him.
Travel had always taught me that destinations rarely matched expectations. Maybe people were the same.
"Take the assignment," Emma said it so suddenly I almost laughed.
"I already accepted."
"No."
Her voice softened. "I mean really take it, from your heart."
I looked down at the itinerary lying beside my laptop.
Santorini.
Mykonos.
Amalfi.
Capri.
Monaco.
Dubrovnik.
Six weeks.
Four countries.
One ocean.
One stranger.
For the first time since Ethan, the thought didn't scare me.
It excited me.
Just a little.
And maybe that was enough.
---
Later that evening, an email appeared in my inbox.
From an unfamiliar address.
No subject line.
No message.
Just an attachment which got me suspicious. I opened it anyway.
Journalists and bad decisions go hand in hand, by the way.
The file contained a single document.
A schedule.
Arrival information.
Boarding instructions.
Security protocols.
My eyes skimmed the details and then stopped.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
Not typed.
Handwritten.
As if someone had scanned it and attached it deliberately.
My pulse quickened.
The note was short.
Only one sentence.
I look forward to finally meeting the woman who saw the story everyone else missed.
— L.M.
I stared.
Then read it again.
And again.
The woman who saw the story everyone else missed.
The article.
The village in Italy.
Three years ago.
That article.
A strange feeling settled in my chest.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Something in between.
Because suddenly Lucas Moretti wasn't just a billionaire.
He was a man who remembered.
A man who had read my work carefully enough to remember a single article from three years ago.
A man who had somehow been thinking about it ever since.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, that realization unsettled me far more than it should have.
Outside, the city lights flickered beneath the darkness.
Inside, I looked at the itinerary one more time.
Six weeks.
The words felt different now.
More real.
More dangerous.
I closed the laptop.
But long after midnight, one question continued circling through my mind.
What story had Lucas Moretti seen in me?
- Writer
