My throat tightens again, but I force myself to keep going.
“And if it works…” I whisper, “if I can secure that position long enough…if there’s an heir….”
Sofia’s breath catches slightly.
I look down at my hands.
“…then there’s something left of my father’s legacy that Anton can’t erase.”
Silence follows.
Not empty.
Heavy with everything I’m not saying.
That it’s not romantic.
That it might never be.
That I don’t even fully know what Timofey will become in all this yet.
Sofia finally speaks, her voice softer now. “Valeria…that’s not a marriage. That’s a battlefield.”
I let out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“That’s my life.”
There’s movement beside me.
Only then do I realize Matteo is still in the room.
He clears his throat gently, suddenly far less theatrical than before.
“Valeria,” he says, “sorry to interrupt. Can you please take off the dress you have on? I’ll go make the necessary adjustments and give you time to talk to your friend. I’ll be back later.”
Oh.
I didn’t even realize he was still here while I said all that.
Heat flickers across my face. “Of course.”
Matteo gives me a softer look than I expect—no teasing, no drama this time. Just understanding. I smile at him.
Sofia exhales slowly and moves immediately to help me out of the dress. Her fingers are careful, practiced in a way that feels grounding. Together, we work the fabric free, easing it off layer by layer until it pools gently onto the bed like something fragile and expensive.
Once it’s off, I let out a breath. Matteo stuffs it back in the garment bag, gives a small wave, and steps out, closing the door quietly behind him.
The silence he leaves behind feels different. More intimate.
Sofia and I sit back down on the bed again.
Closer this time.
Sofia studies my face for a long moment, her expression shifting between concern and something heavier—fear, maybe, or realization.
“You really did it,” she says quietly.
I let out a small, tired breath. “I had to.”
