We eat together at the dining table—our first real meal as husband and wife. He asks about my day, tells me about a deal he’s working on (keeping it vague, but still sharing). It’s... normal. Domestic. Strange and wonderful all at once.
“I start work on Monday,” I tell him over dessert—store-bought tiramisu because I’m not that ambitious.
His eyes meet mine. “At the fashion house.”
“Yes.” I brace myself for the fight.
“Good,” he says simply. “You worked hard for that degree. You should use it.”
I blink. “You’re not going to tell me to stay home?”
“Why would I?” He takes a sip of wine. “I hired a driver. He’ll take you to work and pick you up every day. Non-negotiable.”
It’s controlling, but also... protective. And given his world, I understand it. “Okay.”
His lips curve slightly. “Okay.”
After dinner, he pulls me onto the couch, my back against his chest as we half-watch some documentary he put on. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning,” he says quietly. “I had an early meeting; I couldn’t reschedule.”
“You could have woken me.”
“You were exhausted.” His hand tightens on my hip. “I wore you out.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “You did.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
And he does. Slowly this time, carrying me to bed and taking his time learning every inch of me. When I fall asleep, it’s in his arms, finally feeling like maybe this marriage could be more than just a transaction.
The pattern continues. Every evening, Matteo comes home by seven for dinner. Sometimes I cook, sometimes he orders in, but we always eat together. We talk—about my work, his day, our families. He’s gone before I wake, but he leaves notes now. Little things: “Coffee’s ready. See you tonight,tesoro mio.” Or “Don’t work too hard, Mrs. Rossi.”
Mrs. Rossi. I’m starting to like the sound of that.
Two weeks pass in this strange, sweet routine. Mornings alone, days at work, evenings with my husband, nights tangled together. My sisters notice the change in me—I’m happier, softer. Even my mother comments that marriage suits me when I see her at Sunday dinner.
The opportunity to spend real time with him outside the penthouse presents itself in the form of an event at his family's home on a Saturday afternoon. The driver he hired to chauffeur me drops me at his father’s estate. Gabriella grabs me and pullsme into conversation immediately. I don’t get to see Matteo, not even when everyone gathers around the large table outside for lunch. Even Leonardo is here, and he’s the head of the family!
I lean toward Gabriella, who's seated next to me, to ask where the hell my husband is.
“He’s in Dad’s office, working.” she says with an eyeroll.
“But everyone is here!”
“I know,” she says, reaching for her glass of wine and taking a sip. “Matteo has always been like that. If you ask me, he would have worked on his wedding day too if Dad hadn't put his foot down."
“This is ridiculous,” I hiss, pushing my seat back, fed up by his absence. “I’m going to find him.”
I’m not sure what I plan on doing when I do find him, but it’s the principle of the thing. We spend our evenings together now. He can spare an afternoon with his family. With me.
"First floor, second door on the left," Gabriella tells me with a laugh, giving me directions to her father’s office. I excuse myself from the table, walk back to the house, and head straight to the office. I knock once and when he doesn’t answer, I let myself in. The office is spacious with a mahogany desk that dominates the room. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and there is a subtle scent of old paper, expensive cologne, and alcohol.
The latter is from the whiskey sitting on the desk, untouched.
My eyes find my husband, and I can tell that I've taken him by surprise but his expression immediately clears. He's on a call, with sheets of paper spread on the desk. I know I shouldleave and give the man some privacy to finish the call before bombarding him with questions I've carried for days.
But I don’t leave.
