The Ghost Of The Past

Rocco stared at her.

The woman standing before him was the same clumsy, wide-eyed fool from the hotel. The one who had dared to stand her ground when he dismissed her. The one who had practically demanded he fixed her broken phone.

How pissed he was that day.

What the hell was she doing in his house?

His sharp gaze flickered to the fallen picture frame, the shattered glass glistening on the dark wood floor. His chest tightened. It had been turned face down, as always. He had placed it that way for a reason.

His jaw clenched.

Sienna's hands trembled as she scrambled to pick up the frame. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I—I—" Her voice wavered, frantic. "I swear I'll fix it. I'll—"

A sharp gasp cut through her words as the glass sliced through her palm. Blood welled up, a single drop splattering onto the surface of the photograph.

Rocco didn't move. He looked unbothered.

He just stood there, his face unreadable as her blood dripped onto the floor.

Then, Lucinda walked in.

"What the—" She halted, eyes darting between them before recognition lit up her face. "Oh, hey! It's you." Her brows knit together. "What are you doing here? The kitchen is already being prepped for the competition."

Sienna tried to steady her breathing, her injured hand curled against her chest. "I—um—I just—". Sienna stammered, not able to get a word out.

It seemed like whatever she said, he just didn't care. More like, none of what she said made sense to him.

Lucinda's gaze dropped to the wound. "Oh, your hand! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sienna rushed out. "I just—I'm so sorry, sir. I—" She turned to Rocco, stumbling over her words. "I didn't mean to—I'll fix the—"

Rocco's expression was carved from stone. His gaze burned through her like a brand.

His voice, low and venomous, spilled into the air in Spanish. "¿Cómo diablos entró este cerdo en mi casa?" [How the hell did this pig get into my house?]

Sienna froze.

Lucinda's jaw tightened. "Rocco, sé amable. Ella es una de las concursantes que va a preparar tu comida hoy." [Rocco, be nice. She's one of the contestants cooking for you today.]

Rocco scoffed, his upper lip curling in disgust. "No pienso comer nada de esta idiota." [I'm not eating anything from this idiot.] His dark eyes swept over Sienna with barely concealed disdain. "Mira su aspecto. Parece una pobretona patética." [Look at her. She looks like a pathetic lowlife.]

Lucinda exhaled sharply. "Rocco."

She turned to Sienna with an apologetic smile. "Hey, dear. Why don't you go get that cleaned up? Just get ready for the competition, alright? We'll meet you in the dining hall."

Sienna nodded stiffly, biting the inside of her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she murmured again, bowing slightly before retreating.

But before she was fully out of earshot, Rocco muttered one last insult in English.

"Did you tell that pig to apply?"

Sienna stiffened.

The words landed like a slap, the sting immediate.

Her whole life, she had endured whispers about her body. She had learned to ignore them, to brush them off. But coming from him—Rocco—her childhood friend, the only boy who had never once made her feel ashamed of herself…

It hurt in a way she wasn't prepared for.

She didn't look back.

She just walked, keeping her chin high, her chest tight with a pain she refused to acknowledge.

The moment Sienna was gone, Lucinda turned on Rocco.

"¿Por qué eres tan cruel?" [Why are you so cruel?]

Rocco rolled his shoulders, his jaw ticking. "No pertenezca aquí. Es una chiste." [She doesn't belong here. She's a joke.]

Lucinda scoffed. "No tienes que humillarla. No es como si te hubiera hecho algo." [You didn't have to humiliate her. It's not like she did anything to you.]

Rocco's glare darkened. "Entró a mi estudio y tocó mis cosas. ¿Sabes cuántas personas han muerto por menos que eso?" [She entered my study and touched my things. Do you know how many people have died for less?]

Lucinda folded her arms, unimpressed. "No estamos en tu maldita mafia ahora mismo, Rocco. Es una cocinera, no una amenaza." [We're not in your damn mafia right now, Rocco. She's a cook, not a threat.]

His hands balled into fists at his sides.

Lucinda took a step closer, placing a hand on his arm. "Rocco, deja de actuar como si esto no te molestara más de lo que quieres admitir." [Rocco, stop acting like this isn't bothering you more than you want to admit.]

He yanked his arm away as if burned. "No sabes de qué hablas." [You don't know what you're talking about.]

Lucinda studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Lo que sea." [Whatever.]

Rocco turned on his heel, stalking toward the door.

"Consigue a alguien que se encargue de esa maldita foto." [Get someone to take care of that damn picture.]

And then he was gone.

Rocco's Retreat

He stormed up the marble staircase, his footsteps echoing in the vast, empty hall. The moment he reached his bedroom, he shrugged off his shirt, tossing it aside before stepping into the en-suite bathroom.

Cold water.

He turned the faucet, stepping under the freezing cascade, letting it bite into his skin.

Why the hell was she everywhere?

That stupid woman was like a thorn in his side, appearing in places she had no business being.

He had already decided—she wasn't getting this job. No matter how good her food was, he refused to see her every damn day.

But deep down, something twisted in his gut.

Something he didn't want to acknowledge.

Because as much as he wanted to pretend she was nothing…

She reminded him of someone.

Of a girl from a lifetime ago.

And he hated anything that reminded him of her. Because that girl, his best friend, was a ghost.

And he still carried the guilt of what happened to her mother.