Desired By Deception

Chapter 5

Sleep had been a distant stranger the entire night. I tossed and turned in the bed that was too soft. By the time the first hints of dawn crept through the heavy curtains, I was already wide awake, my heart beating with uneasy anticipation. I needed to speak to Lorenzo immediately.

I dressed quickly in a neat shirt and trousers. After running a brush through my hair and splashing cold water on my face, I stepped into the hallway and flagged down the first maid I saw.

“Excuse me,” I said politely. “I need to see Mr. Rossi as soon as possible. I found something in one of the documents last night that I believe requires his urgent attention.”

The maid nodded without surprise, as though requests like mine were common. “Mr. Rossi is finishing a meeting, but I’ll inform him you’re here. Please wait for him in his private study. I’ll escort you.”

I followed her through the quiet corridors. The estate felt different in the early morning light. It was still oppressively grand, but somehow more alive with the soft sounds of staff beginning their duties. We reached Lorenzo’s private study, the same room where he had given me the initial documents. The maid opened the door and gestured me inside.

“He’ll join you shortly,” she said before closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I was alone.

At first, I sat patiently in one of the deep leather chairs facing his massive desk, my hands folded in my lap. The room smelled of aged wood, leather, and a faint trace of cigar smoke. Minutes ticked by in silence. The longer I waited, the more the quiet pressed against me. Curiosity, that dangerous, insistent voice I could never fully silence began to stir.

I stood up slowly, telling myself I was simply stretching my legs. I wandered toward the corner of the desk where an antique globe rested on a polished stand. My fingers traced the raised surface as I spun it gently. I followed old shipping routes with my fingertip. They were routes that had likely built the Rossi empire. The weight of history here was tangible, almost suffocating.

I moved to the large window next. The gardens below stretched out in perfect symmetry, beautiful but rigidly controlled. Not a single leaf seemed out of place. It was stunning. And yet, standing here looking down at it, the estate felt more like a beautifully wrapped prison than a home. My own little shop in Bloomsbury, with its dust and creaky floors, suddenly seemed like the freest place in the world.

Restlessness pushed me further. I turned my attention to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined two entire walls. As someone who had dedicated her life to preserving history, I couldn’t resist. Most of the titles were exactly what I expected from a man like Lorenzo Rossi. Heavy volumes on maritime trade, European economic history, business strategy, political biographies, Asian Trade, and texts on historical preservation and legacy building. I ran my fingers lightly along the spines, reading titles in multiple languages.

One book stood out, not because of its title, but because it was tucked awkwardly between the others, slightly protruding as if it had been pulled out and hastily replaced. It was a leather-bound photograph album, its cover worn with age and handling.

I hesitated, glancing toward the closed door. I knew I shouldn’t. This was Lorenzo’s private study. Invading his personal belongings was risky. Dangerous, even. He wasn't a man to be trifled with.

But curiosity won.

I carefully pulled the album from the shelf, my hands treating it with the same care I gave fragile documents. The leather was soft under my fingers. I opened it slowly.

Inside were decades-old family photographs.

A much younger Lorenzo smiled broadly in the first few images, he was standing beside an elegant woman with kind eyes and graceful features. They looked genuinely happy. There were photos from birthdays, holidays at what appeared to be luxurious villas, anniversaries, and lively family gatherings. Children laughing. Tables filled with food and wine. Moments of warmth that felt completely at odds with the cold, calculating man I had come to know.

A little girl appeared repeatedly throughout the early pages. She was bright-eyed, with ribbons in her hair. She grew up across the photographs, always smiling, always surrounded by what looked like love.

I kept turning pages, drawn in despite myself. The family’s happiness radiated from every image.

But something slowly began to bother me.

There was no sign of Julian.

Not in any of the childhood photos. No baby pictures. No awkward teenage years. No family portraits where he stood proudly beside Lorenzo. I flipped faster, scanning each page more carefully. There was nothing. Not even one. Julian Vance was simply… absent from this visual history of the Rossi family.

I paused, my mind racing back to vague rumors I had once overheard in London society circles, some tabloid and some gossip columns that hinted at it. Julian had always been introduced as Lorenzo Rossi’s heir, never explicitly as his son. At the time, I had dismissed it as tabloid nonsense. Now, standing here with this album in my hands, those whispers were starting to seem true. They carried different last names too.

I turned to another page.

A folded piece of aged cream-colored paper slipped from between two photographs and fell silently to the floor.

My heart jumped. I knelt quickly and picked it up. The paper was old, slightly yellowed at the edges, and unmarked on the outside. No name. No date. Just a simple fold.

I knew I should put it back. I should mind my business. I should close the album. Return to my chair and pretend I had never touched any of this.

Instead, my fingers moved almost of their own accord. I began unfolding the paper.

A calm male voice cut through the silence behind me.

“What do you think you’re doing?”