Luca Steele
Having someone else living in my apartment is not something I’m used to.
Since I was twenty-three—since the day my mother officially moved into the dementia care wing I built for her—I’ve lived alone.
No guests. No roommates. No unexpected noises. Just me, my work, and the silence I’d grown to depend on.
Now? That silence is gone.
Nova was in the guest room, but her presence filled the whole damn place. I heard her soft footsteps when she wandered to the kitchen late at night. I saw her teacups beside my coffee machine. Her scent clung to the air—vanilla and something floral I couldn’t name.
And then there were the books.
I noticed them stacked neatly on the side table in the sitting room. Curious titles. One caught my eye—Twisted Love by Anna Huang. Another—Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton.
Haunting Adeline?
I frowned. I picked it up, sat down on the couch, and flipped through a few pages. Is she into horror now? I thought, intrigued.
I stopped on a random page and began to read. My eyebrows slowly lifted. My pulse ticked a little faster.
“What the—” I muttered. “What the hell is this?”
The man in the book was doing things with a gun that definitely weren’t listed in the safety manual.
“Is he—no, no, he’s not—he wouldn’t—he is.”
Just then, a voice behind me made me jolt. “What are you doing?”
I spun around like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner. The book practically flew out of my hands onto the couch.
“Nothing,” I said, far too fast.
Nova stood there in a robe, her damp hair wrapped in a towel. She looked fresh-faced, relaxed…and unfairly gorgeous. It was annoying.
Her eyes dropped to the book, then back to me. “Were you reading my book?”
“I mean,” I shrugged, standing up like I wasn’t just traumatized, “you don’t exactly look like someone who reads horror, so I thought I’d check it out.”
She laughed, arms crossed. “You think that’s horror?”
I stared at her. “Well, I did. But now I know it’s something much more disturbing. What the hell, Nova? What kind of filthy, twisted—what are you reading?”
She grinned, completely unfazed. “It’s just fiction.”
“Just fiction? He literally put a gun in her—in her—” I pointed wildly at the book, “you know where! The part where something like that should not go!”
This time she burst out laughing. Like full-on, can’t-breathe, laughing. “You are such a weirdo,” she wheezed. “Oh my God. A dirty, filthy weirdo.”
I scowled. “Says the woman reading—that.”
She grabbed the book and hugged it to her chest. “It’s called spice, Luca. Look it up.”
“I’d rather not,” I grumbled, walking away. “Anyway, I’m going to visit my mother tonight. I haven’t seen her since we got back.”
Her laughter faded, and she nodded. “That’s good. She’ll be happy to see you.” I had told her briefly about my mother when we were on our way to New York.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “I’ll have dinner with her at the facility.”
I went upstairs to get changed, slipping into a dark navy suit. I considered bringing Nova along for a brief second… but then I stopped.
Would Mom remember her? Would she still be asking for Lyla? If Mom had forgotten Lyla, maybe then I could bring Nova next time.
But if she hadn’t…
My thoughts drifted. Lyla.
What the hell happened to her? Did she really run off and get married? Or was that bimbo-looking replacement she sent just part of some elaborate joke?
Because nothing about that Penny girl screamed “secretary.” More like—TikTok influencer. I mean, I couldn’t even remember what Lyla actually looked like anymore… but I remembered her presence.
She was always just there, quietly working, anticipating my every move. With Lyla, I didn’t have to repeat myself. I never worried. Everything got done—perfectly.
No drama. No fuss.
She made my job easier without ever needing recognition.
I shook the thought from my head and headed downstairs. But before I even reached the last step, I heard the front door open.
Heels clacked on the marble. Definitely Penny. She always made an entrance like she was walking a runway. I was about to continue down when I heard another set of footsteps.
Nova.
Then her voice—calm, sharp, commanding. “That’s not the right flowers.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Steele?” Penny asked, confused.
“You were supposed to bring red tulips,” Nova answered. “Not red carnations,” she emphasized.
I paused. My brows furrowed.
Tulips?
How does Nova know my mother likes red tulips?
