Chapter 4 SHATTERED AND ALONE

CHAPTER FOUR

JASMINE'S POV

Left with no choice, I quietly packed my belongings. My fingers began to tremble as they brushed over memories that are now folded into clothes and trinkets.

The once-warm home now felt foreign and hostile, a place that had seen love, life, and now destruction.

My tears soaked into the fabric of Lorenzo's old blanket as I tucked it into my bag, obviously, I'm unable to part with the last piece of him I had left.

Every creak of the floor, every sigh of the wind outside, reminded me I was no longer welcome here.

In desperation, I reached for my phone and dialed Mira's number, my only anchor in the chaos. But just as the line rang, Vincenzo appeared at the doorway, his voice firm and cold.

"Don't involve her. I don't want anyone meddling in this. Most especially, Mira." I froze, within the phone still pressed to my ear.

"She's done enough by bringing you back here in the first place," he added, then disappeared down the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

The call went unanswered, and I lowered the phone as my shoulders slumped in defeat.

By midnight, with only a small suitcase and no money to my name, I slipped quietly out of the estate. The gates that once symbolized security now felt like iron bars of exile.

I looked back one last time, half-hoping Vincenzo might change his mind, run out and stop me.

But the silence was deafening. With nowhere to go and no one to turn to, I walked into the night with my heart heavier than my luggage and swallowed by the cold darkness of a world I was no longer a part of.

After trekking an unknown distance, I found a closed café, the night air bit at my skin as I sat on the cold bench outside a the café, my fingers curled tightly around the last warm breath in my palms.

I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there, but my body ached, and my eyes stung from crying. I was lost in my misery when a sleek black car pulled up in front of me, its tinted window rolling down slowly.

"You look like you could use a little help," a calm, deep voice said.

I looked up, wary. A man stepped out. He was tall and sharply dressed, with the kind of presence that made the world pause. I recognized him almost immediately.

Antonio Deluca. I'd seen his face in magazines, on gallery walls and in art blogs. The billionaire art director himself. What on earth was he doing here.

"I'm not looking for charity," I mumbled, wrapping my coat tighter around me.

"Good," he said with a faint smile. "Because I'm not offering charity. I'm offering shelter. A room in my guest house. Just until you find your footing again."

I hesitated, heart pounding. Was it safe, could I really trust him. But as another gust of wind tore through me and my stomach clenched from hunger, I nodded slowly.

"Alright," I whispered. "Just... for a little while."

THE MORETTI ESTATE

VINCENZO

The next morning, Mira stormed through the grand doors of the Moretti estate, her chest tight with rage and disbelief. Her heels echoed violently across the marble floor as she marched towards my study, a place once filled with warmth now cloaked in cold indifference.

She found me standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight outlining my silhouette, and a cup of coffee in my hand, as if nothing had happened! As if I hadn't just been shattered by the woman whom I gave everything to. I didn't turn, but she could feel the tension coil in the air.

"You threw her out" Mira's voice cracked like a whip, raw with fury and heartbreak. "In the middle of the night, with no money and no shelter. Yet you know she's grieving, Vincenzo! She lost her child and you abandoned her like she meant nothing!" she inquired angrily.

"She betrayed me," I said without flinching, my voice low and final. "The DNA results don't lie. Lorenzo wasn't mine." I barked back at her.

Mira stared at me, her mouth parting in disbelief as her heart thundered with rage. "Are you hearing yourself" she demanded "You're choosing a sheet of paper over the woman who held your dying son in her arms.

She nearly broke herself trying to keep your family together. You think that kind of love can fake itself. God, Vincenzo... I had stood by you. I believed in you. But this....this isn't strength. This is cowardice dressed up as pride."

Her voice broke at the end, her eyes wet with angry tears as she stepped back. "Don't ever call me again," she choked out. "You've lost more than Jasmine. You've lost everyone who ever cared about you."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps trembling now with emotion. The door slammed behind her, and for the first time in weeks, silence didn't feel like peace to me rather it felt like punishment.

JASMINE

ANTONIO'S GUESTHOUSE

With nowhere else to turn, I slowly began piecing the pieces of my life back together. The shattered whole, fragment by fragment with Antonio's unexpected kindness lighting the way.

His guesthouse became a quiet refuge, a place where I could breathe again, even if each breath still carried the weight of grief.

Antonio never pried, he never asked for the full story. He simply showed up at meal times bringing warm meals, clean clothes, and a steady presence that reminded me not all men walked away when things got hard.

One morning, as I sat with my knees curled up to my chin on the porch steps, staring out at the dew-covered garden, he joined me in silence. After a long pause, he said gently, "You don't have to tell me what happened, Jasmine.

But just know... whoever let you go didn't see what they had." My throat tightened, and my eyes welled with tears I thought had long dried up. "He didn't just let me go," I whispered, with my voice trembling. "He threw me away like I was nothing... like I didn't lose my son too."

Antonio didn't say anything after that. He just reached for my hand, held it, and somehow, that small gesture reminded me I was still human who is still worthy of being seen.