Chapter 3 - “YOUR NAME ISN’T EMMA”
I dropped a coffee pot.
It shattered behind the counter.
Everyone turned.
Alessandro stood near the entrance wearing a dark wool coat, looking so violently out of place beside the laminated breakfast menus that I almost laughed.
He didn’t.
His eyes were on me.
“Emma.”
My manager shouted from the kitchen:
“Somebody clean that!”
I crouched automatically.
Alessandro crossed the room.
“Leave it.”
I looked up.
“This is my job.”
He crouched too.
A billionaire in a tailored coat picking broken diner glass off linoleum.
“Don’t.”
His eyes met mine.
“There.”
“What?”
“That word.”
“You say it to me more than anyone else.”
I stood.
“So listen.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then he looked closer at me.
I had lost weight.
Morning sickness had started.
I was exhausted.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“You disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“I sent messages.”
“I know.”
“You blocked me.”
“Yes.”
He stared.
“Do you answer every question with one syllable?”
“When I’m trying to end a conversation.”
That hurt him.
Good.
I needed distance.
Then he removed something from his coat.
Not flowers.
Not jewelry.
A folded piece of paper.
My blood went cold.
It was a photocopy of the gala staffing sheet.
My name:
Emma Hayes.
But handwritten beside it:
Identity mismatch — Elizabeth Monroe?
I stopped breathing.
Alessandro lowered his voice.
“Your name isn’t Emma.”
The diner disappeared around me.
“How did you find that?”
“After you vanished, I asked my assistant to find the catering company.”
“You investigated me?”
“Yes.”
“At first because I wanted to see you.”
“And then?”
“Then I learned Emma Hayes doesn’t exist the way you described.”
My hands tightened.
Alessandro continued:
“Elizabeth Monroe does.”
I backed away.
He saw the fear.
Immediately stopped moving.
“Who was your father?”
I stared.
He already knew.
“Say it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Daniel Monroe.”
There.
I felt twenty-five years old and thirteen at the same time.
“Do you remember him?”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
“I was twenty-four when the scandal happened and working in London.”
“You were still a Vitali.”
“Yes.”
“And your father signed the press statement.”
That landed.
Alessandro’s father, Vittorio Vitali, had publicly announced Daniel Monroe’s termination.
Called the evidence “overwhelming.”
My father spent the next four years trying to prove it wasn’t.
Alessandro said:
“I read the case file after finding your name.”
“Why?”
“Because you were at the gala under a false identity.”
“Interesting phrasing.”
“What were you doing there?”
I said nothing.
Then nausea hit.
Hard.
I grabbed the counter.
Alessandro moved instinctively.
I stepped back.
“Don’t touch me.”
He stopped.
Again.
Good.
Then I ran to the bathroom.
He waited outside.
When I came back, his eyes dropped toward my stomach for half a second.
Too perceptive.
No.
I grabbed my coat.
“My shift is over.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is now.”
I walked outside.
Alessandro followed but kept several feet between us.
“Elizabeth.”
I hated how my real name sounded in his voice.
“Were you searching for something at the hotel?”
I stopped.
That was too close.
He continued:
“Someone accessed an archived executive-storage cabinet on the fifteenth floor during the gala.”
My pulse exploded.
“There are cameras.”
“Apparently one had been disabled for maintenance.”
I said nothing.
He stared.
Then:
“You were looking for your father’s audit.”
There was no point lying anymore.
“Yes.”
His face became very still.
“Did you find it?”
“No.”
That part was true.
The cabinet had been empty.
But I found something else.
A brass key taped beneath the bottom shelf.
Number:
417.
I had never told Liam.
And suddenly I understood something.
Alessandro had not come to the diner because he missed a woman named Emma.
He came because Elizabeth Monroe had entered his family’s hotel looking for evidence.
Then his eyes lowered again.
My hand had drifted unconsciously to my stomach.
He saw.
His expression changed.
“Elizabeth.”
“No.”
His face went pale.
“How late are you?”
I turned away.
He whispered:
“Is there something you need to tell me?”
I looked directly at him.
“No.”
May you like
Then walked away carrying two secrets instead of one.
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