Chapter 10 - THE PHOTOGRAPHS THAT NEVER REACHED THE NEWSPAPERS
Z
Sunday morning arrived without a wedding.
At eight twelve, the first journalist received an anonymous email.
It contained photographs of Vanessa with apparent bruises.
A prepared statement accused Luca Moretti of domestic violence.
The email also included a purported witness declaration bearing my name.
But Rebecca had already contacted the relevant authorities and provided evidence suggesting the photographs and statement had been staged.
The journalist didn't publish the allegations immediately.
Instead, she requested verification.
That decision changed everything.
David Collins agreed to cooperate with investigators.
He provided original image files, timestamps, invoices, and messages showing the application of theatrical makeup.
The makeup artist, Celeste Ward, confirmed she had been hired to create realistic-looking injuries.
She said Vanessa told her the photographs were for a private dramatic project.
Celeste had not known they would be used to accuse someone of assault.
The evidence didn't resolve every allegation about Luca's past.
But it undermined the authenticity of this particular set of photographs.
Rebecca explained that distinction carefully.
“Fabricated evidence doesn't prove someone has never done anything wrong. It proves these specific materials cannot be trusted.”
I appreciated that.
Because I had seen how easily powerful people could shape a story.
And I didn't want the truth replaced by another convenient lie.
That afternoon, investigators obtained additional evidence linking Charles Whitmore to the false death report.
The crash victim had been misidentified.
Whitmore had used another person's identity to disappear.
The details were still under investigation.
But the central fact was clear.
He was alive.
And he had helped Vanessa prepare a scheme involving Luca's assets and fabricated accusations.
Luca sat in Rebecca's office reading the report.
He looked exhausted.
“Fourteen years,” he said.
Rebecca glanced up.
“What?”
“I trusted Charles for fourteen years.”
I watched him.
He had lost his fiancée.
His attorney.
His certainty about people he'd considered family.
I knew something about that kind of loss.
Not because my life resembled his.
But because betrayal felt remarkably similar whether you lived in a mansion or a one-bedroom apartment.
Later, Luca approached me near the elevator.
“Anna.”
I turned.
“How's your shoulder?”
“Better.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“I'm sorry you were pulled into this.”
I looked at him.
“I was already in it.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
I thought about the dinner.
The twenty-four guests.
Vanessa's voice.
The platter tilting in my hands.
Then I said something I'd been afraid to say.
“Mr. Moretti, I don't think you noticed how your household staff were treated until someone got hurt in front of you.”
He looked at me.
I expected anger.
Instead, he nodded.
“That's fair.”
I swallowed.
He continued.
“I intend to change that.”
I wanted to believe him.
But I'd learned not to judge people by promises.
May you like
Only by what they did afterward.
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