Chapter 1
The phone call came at six forty-two in the morning, at an hour when the city had not yet decided whether a new day had truly begun.
Alexander was already awake. He had not slept well that night, although he could not have said exactly why. He had spent hours lying in the darkness of his bedroom with his eyes open, his mind occupied by thoughts that refused to take any definite shape, while the pale light of dawn slowly filtered through the curtains. When his phone vibrated on the bedside table, he reached for it without even looking at the screen. He assumed it was one of the usual work messages that arrived far too early, something he could ignore until he was forced to get out of bed.
Then he saw the name.
Bernard, the family’s lawyer.
Alexander remained still for a few seconds, staring at those few letters on the display. Bernard never called him at that hour and, more importantly, he never called without sending a message first. For a moment, Alexander even considered letting the phone ring, convinced that whatever the reason for the call was, it could wait a few hours. In the end, he answered.
“Hello?”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. It was not long enough to suggest a problem with the connection, but it was enough to make Alexander realize that something was wrong.
“I’m sorry for calling you this early, Alexander.”
Bernard’s voice sounded different from usual, lower and slower, as though he were carefully choosing the words he was about to use. Alexander sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake.
“What happened?”
Bernard hesitated again before answering.
“Your father suffered a medical emergency during the night.”
For several seconds, Alexander said nothing. The rest of the sentence reached him as a collection of words he struggled to put together into something he could understand. Hospital. Doctors. Emergency services. And then, finally, the words that would change everything: his father had not survived.
Alexander remained seated on the edge of the bed, the phone still tightly held in his hand. He could not speak, and for the first time in years, he could not find an immediate response. His father was dead. It was a simple sentence, yet somehow impossible to associate with the man he had known all his life. His father had always been such a solid presence that Alexander had come to think of him as part of the very structure of the house itself. He had not simply been the man who raised Alexander or the head of the Blackwood family; he had seemed to belong to the foundations of the estate, to the walls of his study, to the books arranged so carefully on the shelves, and even to the rules that no one remembered who had established but that everyone continued to follow.
Alexander had never thought of him as fragile, and he had not even known that he was ill.
“When did it happen?” he finally managed to ask.
“Around four. The housekeeper called the emergency services immediately. Your father was taken to the hospital, but...” Bernard stopped, allowing the silence to finish the sentence for him. “I’m sorry, Alexander.”
Alexander closed his eyes. He wanted to ask more questions, to find some explanation that might make the news feel less final. Had his father been having health problems? Had he complained of anything in the days before? Why had no one told him? But none of those questions could change what had happened.
“I’m coming.”
He ended the call without saying anything else.
He remained seated for a few moments, staring blankly ahead, before finally getting up and beginning to dress. He did not call anyone. He already knew that he would find his mother at the estate and that, most likely, Victoria would be there with her.
The road to the family home was so familiar that he could drive it almost without thinking. He left the city behind as the sky gradually grew brighter and the first cars began to fill the roads. He did not turn on the radio. He needed the silence, something that might allow him to put his thoughts in order, even though there seemed to be no order to be found.
It was only when he passed through the long tree-lined drive that he realized how much time had passed since he had last driven that road alone.
The estate appeared beyond the wrought-iron gates, imposing just as he remembered it. The pale facade of the villa rose among the trees still damp with morning dew, while the tall windows reflected the gray sky. Almost all the shutters were still closed, and for a moment Alexander had the strange impression that the house itself was holding its breath.
He parked in front of the entrance but remained behind the wheel for a few seconds. He wanted to feel something other than the emptiness weighing heavily inside him: pain, anger, despair, any emotion strong enough to convince him that the news was truly real. Instead, all he could feel was a deep, dull exhaustion.
He got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. The door opened before he had a chance to ring the bell.
The housekeeper was waiting for him. Her eyes were red, and she held her hands tightly together in front of her apron.
“Sir.”
Alexander gave a slight nod.
“Where is my mother?”
“In the drawing room.”
He took a few steps inside, then stopped and turned toward her.
“Did he suffer?”
The housekeeper lowered her eyes. “It happened very quickly.”
Alexander remained silent for a moment. That answer was enough.
He entered the house.
Nothing had changed, and perhaps that was the worst part. The large clock in the entrance hall showed seven twenty-seven. On the side table, there was still the vase of flowers his father had ordered the previous week. The Persian rug occupied the same place it had for years, and even the small scratch on the banister, the one Alexander remembered causing as a boy when he had let a suitcase slip, was still there. For a moment, he had the impression that he had stepped backward in time, into a place where everything should have remained exactly as it had always been.
Then he saw Victoria.
She was sitting beside his mother in the drawing room and stood as soon as she saw him.
“I’m so sorry.”
Alexander looked at her for a few seconds. Victoria was immaculate, as always, her dark hair elegantly pulled back and her black coat perfectly tailored. Her expression was composed, although the tiredness in her eyes betrayed how little she had slept.
He had known her all his life. Their families had been close for generations and, as they grew up, Victoria had become such a constant presence that she almost seemed like part of the Blackwood family. She had been there for dinners, celebrations, summers spent at the estate, and many of the important moments of his life. No one had ever needed to ask why she was there. Victoria simply was.
She walked toward Alexander and embraced him. He returned the hug for a few seconds, more out of instinct than any real awareness of what he was doing. When they pulled apart, his eyes immediately returned to his mother.
“How is she?”
“Not well,” Victoria answered quietly.
Alexander’s mother slowly raised her eyes toward him. In those few hours, she seemed to have aged far more than he remembered.
“You came.”
Alexander approached her, knelt in front of her, and took her hand.
“Yes. I’m here.”
They did not speak for several minutes. There was no need.
The funeral took place two days later.
The news had already reached everyone who needed to know. His father’s name carried enough weight to attract people Alexander had never seen before: businessmen, politicians, old friends of the family, and acquaintances who seemed to have known his father far better than he had ever realized. They approached one at a time, shook hands, offered words of condolence, and tried to wear the solemn expression that seemed expected on such occasions.
Alexander let them speak. He answered when necessary, thanked those who came to offer their condolences, and remained beside his mother for as long as possible.
Victoria hardly left his side. Whenever someone tried to keep him in conversation for too long, she was often the one to step in discreetly. She knew when to change the subject, when to guide his mother away, and when to hand him a glass of water without him having to ask. To anyone watching from the outside, that closeness could easily have appeared to be something deeper than it actually was.
During the reception, a man Alexander barely knew shook his hand and, after glancing at Victoria, said with a mournful smile, “Your father would have been happy to know you have someone like her by your side.”
Alexander lowered his gaze slightly. Victoria offered a polite smile, but he did not correct the man. It was not because there was any truth in what he had said; simply, at that moment, Alexander did not care enough to explain otherwise. Victoria had been part of his life for so long that no one bothered anymore to define their relationship. She was always there, and Alexander had long ago learned not to concern himself with what other people thought about them.
That evening, once the house had finally emptied and silence had returned to the rooms, Alexander withdrew to his father’s study.
It was the room where he had spent the most time during his childhood, a large library paneled in dark wood, with two walls entirely covered by bookshelves and a tall window overlooking the back garden. The door was slightly open, and Alexander pushed it slowly.
The smell of the room reached him immediately: wood, paper, and the faint scent of tobacco that seemed to have settled into the furniture over the years. It was his father’s scent, and realizing that made Alexander’s jaw tighten involuntarily.
He remained in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. Several documents were still arranged in perfectly aligned piles on the desk. His father’s glasses lay beside an open book, and a pen had been left on a sheet of paper, as though the man might return at any moment and pick it up again.
Alexander moved closer and looked at the chair behind the desk. For a moment, he could almost picture his father sitting there, reading or working.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Bernard’s voice came from behind him.
Alexander turned. The lawyer entered the room with a black folder under his arm and closed the door behind him.
“Does my mother want the will read immediately?”
Bernard slowly shook his head. “Your father left specific instructions regarding the reading.”
“What kind of instructions?”
“I’d rather explain everything tomorrow, when we read the document.”
Alexander studied him for a few seconds. “And why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me something I won’t like?”
“I didn’t say there was anything you wouldn’t like.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Bernard held his gaze for a moment before placing the folder on the desk.
“The official reading is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Alexander remained silent for a moment, then glanced toward the door as though already thinking about the following morning.
“My mother will be there.”
Bernard hesitated. “Your father had asked that the reading take place in the presence of the heirs directly involved in the provisions.”
Alexander looked at him.
“My mother is his wife. She has just lost her husband. I’m not going to keep her out of something like this.”
“Alexander, this isn’t personal. I’m simply following the instructions I was given.”
“And I’m telling you that I want her there.”
For a few seconds, the two men looked at one another in silence. Bernard was the first to look away.
“All right. If that is your decision, I won’t object.”
Alexander nodded and looked back at the folder.
“Is there anything else?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
The following morning, they gathered in the study.
His mother sat on the sofa, Alexander occupied the armchair opposite the desk, and Victoria had arrived shortly before and taken a seat near the window. Bernard closed the door behind him and placed the folder containing the testamentary documents in front of them.
There was also a sealed envelope on the table.
Alexander noticed it immediately but said nothing.
Bernard sat down and opened the folder.
“The latest version of the will was signed eleven days ago.”
Alexander raised his eyes.
“Eleven days?”
“Yes.”
“My father never mentioned a new will to me.”
“He wasn’t required to.”
Victoria spoke calmly. “Can we simply hear what he decided?”
Alexander looked at her for a moment, then returned his attention to Bernard.
The lawyer began to read.
The first provisions were what everyone would have expected. Some assets would pass to his wife, others to his son. The company shares would be distributed according to specific conditions, while certain properties would remain subject to restrictions. Alexander listened carefully but without much surprise, until Bernard reached a different section.
“With regard to the estate and the personal assets expressly identified in these provisions...” he began, pausing briefly before continuing, “it is my wish that they be transferred to Miss Elena Moretti.”
Silence filled the study.
Alexander slowly raised his eyes. For several seconds, no one seemed able to find the right words. His mother looked utterly bewildered. Victoria, on the other hand, had gone completely still.
Alexander looked from one woman to the other as though one of them must surely have an explanation.
Neither did.
“Who is she?”
Bernard lowered his eyes to the document.
“Elena Moretti. Twenty-eight years old.”
Alexander gave a short laugh devoid of any amusement.
“I understood that. What I don’t understand is who she is.”
“She is a woman your father specifically named in his will.”
“Do I know her?”
“No.”
Alexander turned toward his mother.
“Do you know her?”
She slowly shook her head.
“No.”
Alexander looked at Victoria.
“You?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Alexander turned back to Bernard.
“Then explain to me why my father would leave such an important part of the family fortune to a complete stranger.”
Bernard remained silent for a moment before turning the page.
“Because it isn’t simply a matter of part of the fortune.”
Alexander’s expression changed slightly.
“Go on.”
“Your father stipulated that Miss Moretti become the owner of the estate and of a substantial portion of the personal assets he identified.”
Alexander leaned slightly forward.
“And I assume there’s a condition.”
Bernard nodded.
“A very specific one.”
“What is it?”
The lawyer looked at him.
“Miss Moretti must live at the estate for twelve months.”
Alexander remained silent. His mother slowly raised a hand to her mouth, while Victoria did not move.
“Alone?” Alexander asked.
“No.”
Bernard paused before delivering the next words.
“With you.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Alexander slowly leaned back in his chair, trying to determine whether he had heard correctly.
“I’m sorry?”
“For twelve months, the two of you are required to live on the property together. It is a condition that must be fulfilled before the transfer of the inheritance can become final.”
Alexander rubbed a hand over his face.
“My father left part of our estate to a woman none of us knows and decided that she has to live here with me for an entire year?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bernard lowered his eyes briefly.
“The will does not provide a complete explanation.”
Alexander rose from the chair and began to pace slowly across the room.
“And what happens if she refuses?”
“The provision addresses that as well.”
Alexander stopped.
Bernard spoke carefully. “If Miss Moretti refuses the inheritance in its entirety, the provisions connected to this portion of the estate will lapse. Your father stipulated that these assets cannot simply be redistributed to the family if she chooses not to accept them.”
Alexander stared at him.
“So we can’t simply take what would otherwise belong to us.”
“Not under these provisions.”
“My father thought of everything.”
“Yes.”
Alexander lowered his gaze toward the desk. He still could not understand what had driven his father to construct something like this. It was not merely a financial decision. If it had been, it could have been explained through a clause, a gift, or a division of assets. But requiring a complete stranger to spend an entire year living in the family home with him was something else entirely.
“How did he know her?”
Bernard did not answer.
Alexander looked up.
“Bernard.”
The lawyer slowly closed the folder.
“I cannot tell you what I was never told.”
“But you must know something.”
“I know only what your father chose to entrust to me.”
Alexander studied him for a long moment. He had known Bernard all his life and knew how to recognize when the man was avoiding a question.
Before he could press him further, his gaze returned to the envelope he had noticed at the beginning of the reading. It was separate from the other documents, and a name was written across the front.
Elena Moretti.
Alexander pointed toward it.
“What is that?”
Bernard followed his gaze.
“A letter.”
“For her?”
“Yes.”
Alexander frowned.
“And what is it doing here?”
“Your father instructed me to keep it until the appointed time.”
“What appointed time?”
Bernard hesitated.
“It hasn’t come yet.”
Alexander stared at him.
“And when will it?”
“When the conditions your father specified have been fulfilled.”
The answer clearly did not satisfy him.
“Can I read it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t addressed to you.”
Alexander fell silent.
Bernard picked up the envelope and placed it back inside the folder, making sure it was properly secured.
“When the time comes, it will be given to the person it was intended for.”
Alexander wanted to ask more questions, but he understood that he would get nothing from Bernard.
“And if this Elena Moretti doesn’t want to come here?”
Bernard looked at him with an expression Alexander could not quite interpret.
“Then she will have to decide what she is willing to lose.”
Alexander returned to his chair.
He had not yet met this woman. He did not know her face, her voice, or anything about the way she lived. He knew nothing about her, yet his father had decided that from that moment onward, Elena Moretti would have a central place in the life of the Blackwood family.
The most incomprehensible part, however, was not even the inheritance.
It was the letter.
Why would a man who, as far as Alexander knew, had never even mentioned Elena Moretti leave a personal letter specifically for her?
Bernard gathered the documents and stood.
“There is one last thing.”
Alexander looked up.
“What?”
The lawyer remained standing beside the desk for a few seconds, as though considering how much he should say.
“Your father asked me to give you a message when I read these provisions.”
Alexander waited.
“What message?”
Bernard looked directly into his eyes.
“He told me that, sooner or later, everything would fall back into place.”
Alexander remained still.
“Is that all?”
“That is all I can tell you.”
Bernard walked toward the door, but before leaving, he stopped and added, “I believe your father knew that many of the questions you would have this morning could not be answered immediately.”
The door closed behind him.
Alexander remained in the room with his mother and Victoria. For a few moments, no one spoke. Outside the windows, the garden was bathed in the clear light of morning, completely untouched by the confusion that had just swept through the room.
Alexander lowered his gaze toward the closed folder.
Elena Moretti.
He did not know who she was, why his father had chosen her, or what had driven a man like him to leave such an important part of his life to a complete stranger. Above all, he could not understand why his father had wanted this woman to spend an entire year living under the same roof as him.
And yet, as he continued to think about that name, something strange passed through his mind. It was only a fleeting, inexplicable sensation, as though the name were not entirely unfamiliar.
Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, trying to grasp the feeling before it disappeared, but there was nothing there. Only a distant, indistinct shadow that he could not turn into a memory.
When he opened his eyes again, Elena Moretti was still a stranger.
But she would not remain one for long.
Somewhere, unaware of what was about to happen, a twenty-eight-year-old woman was about to receive the news that would change her life, while Alexander had no idea just how deeply a decision made by a man who was now dead would eventually bind their lives together.
