Page 72 of Sexted By a Stranger
A few days later, to discuss the feasibility of a complex structure in my competition piece, I went to consult with George, a familiar old jeweler.
I headed to old George's workshop, with Ragnar following at his usual distance.
The discussion went unexpectedly smoothly. He patted his chest and guaranteed he could perfectly execute the structure I'd envisioned.
With business finished and time to spare, I decided to walk around the familiar neighborhood, get some fresh air, and sort through my tangled thoughts.
The afternoon sun felt warm on my skin, and the rich aroma of coffee drifted from the corner café. Just as I passed an elegant antique shop, a familiar voice called out with surprise:
"Sheila? Darling, is that really you?"
Looking toward the voice, Madeline was walking out of the shop.
"Madeline!"
We walked together into the nearby café and sat by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting warm patches on the small round table covered with a checkered tablecloth.
Madeline ordered hot milk for me and tea for herself.
"Sheila," Madeline set down her delicate bone china teacup and studied my face carefully, "you look a bit worn down. Something to do with Mr. Bellomo?"
"Madeline, I…"
Tears came without warning, quickly blurring my vision. I choked up, speaking incoherently, pouring out the greatest fear that had been weighing on my heart—one I couldn't share with Mom.
Madeline listened quietly without interruption, only offering a soft tissue at the right moments. Only after I'd finished sobbing and collapsed exhaustively on the table did she gently reach across the small round table and grasp my cold, trembling hands with her warm palms.
"Dear Sheila…" she sighed softly, "Listen, this world has never offered perfect choices or bright paths without shadows. Every person, every relationship carries its own thorns and burdens."
Her gaze was piercing as she looked directly into my tear-filled eyes. "What truly matters are only two questions. First, does he truly love you? With his whole being, not just money and power? Second, do you truly love him? Love the real him, including his inseparable identity and the shadows of that world?"
I was stunned. These two core questions hit like sledgehammers, making my heart pound. Luca's silentprotection, careful arrangements, clumsy attempts to please, even that vicious bullet wound on his shoulder… I couldn't deny the deep-rooted feelings and attachment in my heart.
"As for his world," Madeline gently patted the back of my hand, "danger is an objective reality. But Sheila, look at yourself, look at your resilience and intelligence. You've never been a clinging vine. As long as two hearts stay close together, willing to brave thorns for each other, even the greatest obstacles can eventually be overcome."
She lifted her teacup and took a sip. "I've seen too much false affection and casual flings. But that time when Connor almost took you away, I could tell he came specifically for you. Sheila, trust me—you're different from him."
Madeline's words were like a warm, bright light piercing through the heavy, confusing haze in my heart. All those things I'd deliberately ignored—the ways Luca expressed his difference through actions rather than words—now surfaced clearly.
The parade of women around him had long since disappeared. His thoughtfulness toward my family. The deep worry hidden in his eyes when he taught me self-defense far exceeded his concern for his own wounds. And that omnipresent, silent but stubborn protection…
"Face it together…" I murmured, repeating those four words. Something hard in the corner of my heart seemed to quietly melt in the warm sunlight.
Night fell again.
My body was exhausted from a day of running around. I pushed open the apartment door and habitually headed toward the bathroom, wanting to wash away the day's fatigue with hot water.
The moment I opened the bathroom door, a wave of warm, humid air mixed with rich rose fragrance hit my face. I froze in place.
In the huge massage tub, clear hot water rippled gently, and on the surface floated a layer of fresh rose petals.
They bobbed up and down in the steamy air like beating hearts.
Rose petals… I'd only mentioned once in casual conversation that when I was fourteen, Mom had taken me to clean a luxurious mansion. Seeing the rose petals floating in the owner's bathtub, I thought anyone who could bathe in there must be a princess.
On the small stool beside the tub, fluffy white towels were neatly folded, with a clean bathrobe of the same material beside them. On the nearby small round table sat a cup of warm milk, still steaming at the rim, and even a small plate of ginger cookies I'd casually mentioned liking that morning.
It was Luca.
