The drive to the company was quiet but tense.

May focused on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel, irritation simmering beneath her composed exterior. Luca sat in the passenger seat, gaze fixed on the towering structure ahead, eyes narrowing slightly as the building came fully into view.

"That's yours?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied shortly.

He leaned forward a little, studying the glass-and-steel tower that dominated the skyline. "It's...big."

She glanced at him. "You're not coming down."

He turned to her slowly. "Why?"

"Because it wouldn't be nice," she said coolly. "And because your clothes are starting to smell. There's no spare outfit, and I won't have my staff gossiping."

He looked down at himself briefly, then back at her. "You should've warned me."

"I warned you not to touch anything in my car," she snapped. "That includes getting comfortable."

She parked and killed the engine. "Stay here."

Luca lifted a brow. "I'll try."

She didn't miss the faint amusement in his voice, and it annoyed her more than she cared to admit.

Inside the building, heads turned instantly.

May felt it the moment she stepped in...the surprise, the confusion, the whispers. She was never seen like this. No perfect hair, no tailored suit, no calculated polish. Just May, sharp-eyed and irritated, moving with purpose.

"Is that...?"

"She looks different."

"Did something happen?"

She ignored them all and headed straight for the elevator.

Serena Vale was already waiting when she entered her office.

Tall, flawless, dressed like she was about to step onto a runway rather than into a meeting, Serena leaned against the desk with clear impatience etched into her expression.

"You're late," Serena said.

"You're demanding," May replied calmly, dropping her bag. "That balances us out."

Serena's lips tightened. "I'm here because your agency promised exclusivity for the Milan campaign. I don't do shared spotlights, and I don't compromise."

May folded her arms. "And I don't renegotiate contracts because someone woke up dissatisfied."

The meeting dragged.

Serena complained about creative control, about photographers, about styling teams that didn't revolve entirely around her preferences. Each demand chipped at May's patience, her irritation growing with every minute wasted.

Then the noise started.

At first, it was faint...murmurs, then giggles, then raised voices. May's gaze flicked instinctively toward the glass window blinds that overlooked the staff offices. She rose slightly, pulling them aside just enough to see.

Women clustered together.

Blushing. Whispering. Laughing.

And in the middle of it...

Luca.

He stood near the reception desk like he belonged there, one hand dipped casually into his pocket, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. His presence alone seemed to bend attention toward him, staff lingering longer than necessary, glances stolen openly now.

May's stomach dropped.

"You have got to be kidding me," she muttered.

She turned sharply and stormed out, heels striking the floor with barely restrained fury. As she approached, she could hear it.

"He's so tall."

"Is he a model?"

"Those eyes..."

Luca looked up when he saw her, unfazed.

"You told me not to come down," he said calmly.

"I told you to stay in the car," she hissed.

"The heat was unbearable," he replied. "I needed air."

"You touched my car?" she snapped.

"No," he said. "I suffered."

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. "You are impossible."

He leaned slightly closer. "Get me hot tea. The air conditioning in the car is killing me."

Her glare could have drawn blood.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her office. "One more word out here and I will personally escort you back to the hospital."

Inside, Serena looked up instantly.

Her gaze locked onto Luca...and stayed there.

Too long.

May noticed.

Luca noticed too.

Serena straightened, smile slow and deliberate. "Well," she said softly, "you didn't mention you'd bring company."

May gestured toward the chair beside Serena. "Sit."

Luca did, unbothered, crossing his leg with effortless confidence.

Serena's eyes never left him.

He glanced at her once, then said flatly, "You're not good-looking enough to stare at me for that long."

The room went dead silent.

Serena stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"I don't repeat myself," he replied calmly.

May didn't know when it happened...but she smiled.

Serena stood abruptly, face flushed with anger. "This is unacceptable."

"So are your demands," May said smoothly.

Serena grabbed her bag. "We'll revisit this."

"Or we won't," May replied.

The door slammed behind her.

May leaned back against her desk, exhaling slowly, then glanced at Luca.

"You are a problem."

He met her gaze evenly. "You brought me here."

She smiled again before she could stop herself and that annoyed her most of all.

*

The rest of the day should have gone smoothly.

It didn't.

By noon, May realized she had somehow become Luca's errand girl.

"Water," he said at some point, not looking at her.

She ignored him.

Five minutes later..."It's warm in here."

She clenched her jaw and adjusted the temperature.

When one of her staff offered to help, Luca dismissed them with a glance so cold the woman visibly stiffened before retreating. Another tried again, smiling politely, and he responded with silence so heavy it made May sigh in frustration.

"Stop intimidating my employees," she snapped under her breath.

"I didn't say anything," he replied calmly.

"That's the problem."

Every time someone else tried to assist him, he either ignored them or gave them a look that suggested they were beneath acknowledgment. Eventually, the staff stopped approaching him altogether and looked to May instead.

And she hated that they were looking at her like that.

By late afternoon, her patience was thin, her schedule wrecked, and Luca looked...completely unfazed. Exhausted physically, yes, but mentally sharp, observant, commanding in a way that made it impossible to forget he was not an ordinary man.

When they finally left the building, May didn't speak until they were halfway home.

Traffic was terrible. Someone cut her off aggressively, honking as they sped past.

Luca's jaw tightened. "Vaffanculo."

She turned sharply. "What did you just say?"

He glanced at her briefly. "I don't know."

"That's Italian," she said slowly.

He frowned. "It is?"

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. A memory surfaced suddenly, uninvited...the airport, the collision, the man who had brushed past her muttering the same word in the same accent.

Her heart skipped.

She glanced at him again. "You cussed at me like that before."

"When?" he asked.

"At the airport," she said. "You bumped into me. Same accent. Same word."

He went quiet.

She studied his face, searching for recognition, for anything. "Are you Italian?"

He stared ahead for a long moment. "I don't know," he said finally. "The word just came to my head."

That unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

She looked back at the road, unease curling slowly in her chest, the realization sinking deeper with every mile.

Luca might have lost his memories...but his instincts were still very much alive.

And May Boston had brought them home with her.

Night finally gave May what the day hadn't.

Silence.

The house was dim, lights low, the city outside reduced to a distant hum. Luca had fallen asleep on the couch earlier than she expected, exhaustion finally winning over whatever force kept him alert through the day. She had watched him for a moment longer than necessary before retreating to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

For the first time since the accident, she was alone with her thoughts.

She sat on her bed, robe loose around her shoulders, tablet balanced on her knees as she scrolled absently at first...emails she ignored, notifications she dismissed, messages she would deal with tomorrow. Then a headline caught her attention.

Explosion on Los Angeles Highway...Driver Still Missing.

Her fingers stilled.

She tapped it.

The article was brief, frustratingly so. A luxury sports car had been rammed by a trailer late at night, the impact triggering a violent explosion. Authorities believed the driver may have been ejected from the vehicle, but no body had been found. Investigations were ongoing.

The date stared back at her.

The same night.

Her stomach tightened slightly.

She scrolled through the images, blurred photos of twisted metal, scorched asphalt, flashing lights frozen mid-chaos. Something about it felt...off. Too violent for a random accident. Too cleanly unexplained.

Her gaze drifted away from the screen, mind replaying Luca's calm authority, the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he ordered without effort. He didn't behave like a man who had lived modestly. He didn't think like one either. His instincts were expensive...taste refined, posture disciplined, confidence unshakable.

Wealth wasn't learned overnight.

She frowned.

If he had been involved in something like that...if he was the missing driver...why hadn't his name been everywhere? No frantic family statements, no media frenzy, no background pieces dissecting his life. People with money made noise when they disappeared.

She typed his name into the search bar.

Luca.

Too vague.

She refined it.

Luca Los Angeles accident.

Nothing useful.

She tried again.

Luca Italian.

Profiles flooded the screen...models, chefs, athletes, businessmen, social media influencers. Different faces, different lives, none of them him. She scrolled, brows knitting together as irritation slowly gave way to unease.

She added more details...keywords she wasn't sure why she was choosing.

Luxury car explosion driver.

Still nothing.

If he was someone important, someone with influence or wealth, the media would have eaten the story alive. Yet the article treated it like a footnote, a brief interruption between politics and celebrity gossip.

It didn't make sense.

She leaned back against the headboard, tablet resting loosely in her hands, thoughts spiraling quietly. Luca was a contradiction...commanding yet lost, polished yet displaced, dangerous in ways she couldn't yet name. Amnesia explained the gaps, but not the instincts, not the ease with which he slipped into dominance, not the way people unconsciously responded to him.

Her gaze drifted toward the door, beyond it, toward the living room where he slept.

Who are you...really?

The question lingered unanswered.

She locked the tablet and set it aside, sleep still far from her reach, unease settling deep in her chest. Somewhere between the explosion, the missing driver, and the man under her roof, May Boston knew one thing with unsettling clarity.

Luca was not just a stranger who had wandered into her life by accident.

*

Morning came in a blink.

May didn't overthink it.

Luca couldn't keep wearing the same clothes, and she was tired of pretending the situation was temporary when it clearly wasn't. After a quick shower and a strong cup of coffee, she told him they were going out.

"Where?" he asked, pulling on the jacket Pete had brought days ago.

"Shopping," she replied. "Unless you plan on haunting my house in that outfit forever."

He glanced down at himself, then at her. "I don't mind."

"Well, I do."

They drove to one of her private clothing stores, a sleek glass-fronted building nestled between luxury boutiques, understated yet unmistakably expensive. Inside, the space was curated, not crowded...neutral tones, clean lines, racks spaced deliberately to let each piece breathe.

Luca stepped in and paused.

He didn't gawk, didn't rush, just skimmed his gaze across the store like someone assessing territory he already understood. He moved with ease, fingers brushing fabrics, eyes sharp, dismissing some pieces instantly, lingering on others without touching them.

May watched him quietly.

As a fashion executive, she trusted her instincts, and she selected items she knew would suit him...tailored trousers, structured jackets, shirts cut to frame his shoulders. He accepted them without comment, neither impressed nor dismissive.

Then he stopped.

In front of a display case sat a designer shirt, minimalist, rare, outrageously priced.

Luca stared at it.

May followed his gaze and raised a brow. "You like it?"

"It's fake," he said calmly.

She laughed. "That's a one of one," she said. "Designed by Alessandro Vitale from Italy. It never went into mass production."

"I know," Luca replied. "I'm looking at it because it's fake."

She turned to him, amusement still lingering. "And how would you know that?"

He looked at her then, expression unreadable. "Because I bought the original."

Her smile faltered slightly. "That's funny."

"I'm not joking."

She crossed her arms. "Prove it."

He leaned closer to the glass, pointing without touching. "The stitching at the inner collar is wrong. Vitale hand-finishes his seams, this one was machine-locked. The dye gradient is off by two shades, and the fabric blend is incorrect. The original uses untreated silk-cotton, this one has a synthetic thread woven through it."

May's breath caught.

She called over the store manager, asked questions casually, masked her interest. Within minutes, confirmation came in awkward silence.

The shirt wasn't authentic.

She dismissed the staff and turned back to Luca slowly, studying him like a puzzle she hadn't realized she wanted to solve.

"You knew all that," she said quietly.

He shrugged. "It felt obvious."

Her mind raced.

This wasn't instinct alone. This was familiarity, ownership, authority. Whatever life Luca had lived before had brushed shoulders with power, money, exclusivity...maybe even ruled over it.

As she watched him walk toward the fitting rooms, unbothered, unconcerned, a thought crossed her mind, sharp and dangerous.

Maybe she could use him.

And for the first time since bringing him home, May Boston smiled with intention.

May had been hunched over her system since morning, shoulders tight, eyes burning slightly from staring too long at the screen. Files were scattered across multiple tabs, budgets, contracts, schedules, all demanding attention at once, and she handled them the only way she knew how...with ruthless focus.

Work was easier than thinking.

A notification slid across her screen and she clicked it absentmindedly, already preparing to dismiss it, until the words registered.

Milano Fashion Week...Internal Reminder.

Her fingers froze.

Italy.

The details expanded automatically, dates, venues, logistics, and then the name that made her lips press into a thin line.

Serena Vales.

Of course she was representing the company.

May leaned back slightly, exhaling through her nose as irritation crept in. Serena never attended anything without demands, never agreed to anything without conditions, and every interaction felt like a negotiation disguised as a favor. She already knew the meeting would be exhausting, that Serena would push boundaries again and expect them to bend.

She closed the tab and rubbed her temple.

A knock sounded before she could dwell on it further.

Pete walked in carrying a thick file, expression businesslike as always. "We need final approval on the dresses for Milan," he said, placing it neatly on her desk. "Shipping deadlines are tight."

She nodded, flipping it open immediately. Fabrics, silhouettes, color palettes...she scanned through them with practiced ease while Pete updated her on sponsor confirmations, press interest, and seating arrangements. She responded automatically, voice steady, confident, every inch the CEO everyone expected her to be.

Yet her focus slipped.

Just slightly.

Her gaze lingered on nothing as her thoughts drifted somewhere else entirely.

Luca.

The way he had moved through her store like he belonged there, the way he had dismantled a counterfeit with unsettling precision, the calm authority he carried even when he claimed not to know who he was. He didn't act like a man searching for himself, he acted like a man temporarily misplaced.

Her jaw tightened. He didn't have a phone.

The realization came fully this time, followed by a quiet sigh. She had left him at home that morning with nothing but vague instructions and money he hadn't touched. For someone so commanding, he was strangely dependent, and she didn't like the thought of him stranded if something happened.

"I'll get him one," she murmured under her breath.

Pete looked up. "Get who?"

She straightened instantly. "Nothing. I'll review this and send you my picks."

He nodded, used to her abrupt shifts, and left without another word.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

Meetings, calls, emails...she powered through them all until the building emptied and dusk settled outside her office windows. When she finally shut down her system, exhaustion crept in quietly, heavier than she expected.

Her phone rang as she reached for her bag. She glanced at the screen and stopped.

Father.

Her breath caught.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that single word glowing in her hand. Her confidence, her sharp edges, the persona she wore so effortlessly...it all fractured.

She answered. "H-hello?"

The stutter embarrassed her instantly, but she couldn't stop it. She said nothing else, only listened, fingers tightening around the phone as the voice on the other end spoke. Her expression shifted slowly, disbelief bleeding into something darker, something wounded.

She didn't interrupt, she didn't argue and she didn't raise her voice.

When the call ended, she stood there staring at the blank screen, chest rising unevenly.

Her father was back.

She had buried that part of her life so deeply she had almost believed it was gone for good. Prison had been final in her mind, justice served, the door closed forever.

Apparently, it hadn't been.

Rain began to fall as she drove out of the parking lot, light droplets tapping against the windshield. She had already seen the forecast earlier and ignored it, like she ignored most warnings.

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as memories surfaced uninvited, sharp and raw. Pain she had hidden behind ambition, control, and an arrogance carefully crafted to keep the world at a distance.

She blinked hard as tears spilled over, blurring the road ahead.

She hated herself for crying.

The rain grew heavier, pouring now, headlights streaking uselessly across wet asphalt. She slowed down, breath uneven, heart pounding, mind spiraling faster than she could rein it in.

She was almost home.

Just one more stretch of road.

The impact came without warning.

A violent jolt, metal screeching, the car skidding before slamming into something solid. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp as everything went still except the rain.

She sat frozen for a second, then forced the door open and stumbled out, the cold downpour soaking her instantly. Her legs buckled beside the car and she sank onto the pavement, rain mixing with tears she could no longer hold back.

She cried openly, shoulders shaking, pride forgotten.

She didn't know how long she stayed like that, broken under the weight of memories she had spent years outrunning.

Then she felt it.

Someone was there.

She lifted her head slowly.

A pair of boots stood before her, unmoving. The rain stopped falling on her face as an umbrella appeared above, shielding her from the storm.

She followed it upward.

Luca.

He stood there, expression unreadable, rain dripping from the umbrella's edge, eyes fixed on her with a steadiness that felt grounding and dangerous all at once.

She almost laughed at the absurdity.

She had always hated romance dramas, hated the ridiculous timing, the unrealistic way love was portrayed, the main guy appearing like a knight at the exact moment everything fell apart.

Yet here he was.

He looked down at her, voice low, firm, carrying an authority she was beginning to recognize far too well.

"You made me find you."