Chapter 41 Ten Minutes
Valentina
I should’ve known the limo was a luxury I wouldn’t get to keep.
The SUV that waited for us at the edge of the runway was sleek and black, matte paint job and tinted windows. Not flashy—just expensive. And unlike the spacious limo or the empty aisle of the plane, the bench-style backseat forced me to sit right next to him.
No escape. No breathing room. Just heat and tension and the weight of the sapphire crest still pinned to my hair.
He slid in beside me with that same smug silence he always wore after winning a round of something—poker, arguments, power plays. And as soon as the door shut, his hand found my waist and tugged me closer.
Not gently.
Just enough for the driver to glance up at the rearview mirror and see something… affectionate.
I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “You don’t have to touch me,” I muttered under my breath.
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “I do if I want it to look real.”
I didn’t respond. Just kept my eyes locked on the palm trees blurring past the window, pretending this was some other girl’s life. Some other bride on her honeymoon. One who actually wanted her husband’s hands on her waist. One who didn’t flinch every time he got close.
The ride wasn’t long—fifteen minutes, maybe less—but it felt like being slowly boiled alive.
And then the villa appeared.
Tucked behind a curtain of trees and surrounded by high stone walls, the place was massive but private. A sprawling terracotta-roofed estate with wrought iron balconies and open archways that overlooked the ocean beyond.
Romantic. Expensive.
A cage with better views.
The car stopped at the front entrance and the driver got out first. Two maids—young, tan, and probably handpicked for discretion—were already waiting at the door. No warm greetings. No island tour. Just a nod from Matteo and a silent acknowledgment of who was in charge.
“Take the luggage to the master bedroom,” he instructed, his hand still on my back. “We won’t be needing anything else.”
One of the maids hesitated. “Would you like a meal prepared, or—”
“As long as the mini bar’s stocked and there’s plenty of water,” Matteo cut in, “then no. We don’t need anything.”
His tone shifted. Darker. Sharper.
“And we’re not to be disturbed for at least the next twelve hours.”
My head whipped toward him. “Twelve hours?” I echoed, trying not to let the horror creep into my voice.
He smiled like he was posing for a fucking postcard. “At least.”
The stairs hum under our feet—the villa breathing around us like a sleeping animal—and for the first time since I landed in his world, the house is mine, too, if only for the night. Matteo’s hand stays at the small of my back, guiding me forward with the gentle authority he uses when he wants something to happen smoothly. The moon spills silver across the parquet; everything feels too quiet, like the world is holding its breath along with me.
“Show me the place first?” I try, fingers threaded lightly through his. His mouth quirks.
“That can wait,” he says. “It’s the middle of the night. We sleep.”
We cross the threshold and the bedroom swallows us—high ceilings, a bed that could hold a dozen people, linens white and waiting like a promise or a trap. The staff has left out our luggage in a neat line. Two maids have already retreated; the driver idles in the courtyard. The hush of a house that’s always had servants feels different when you are the one being served.
“You sure we’re sharing a room?” I ask, because I need the words to steady me.
“Of course,” he answers simply. “We’re married. We share.”
It’s not the gentle reassurance I want; it’s an inevitability stated as fact. I nod, because arguing will only make it real in a way I can’t control.
At the vanity, I reach up and unpin the sapphire crest. It slides free into my palm—cool and familiar—and for a second I forget to be everything I am supposed to be.
“Here,” Matteo says, coming up behind me as if drawn. “Let me help.” His fingers hover at the zipper of my dress; the leather of his palm is warm against the hollow of my back.
He starts to slide it down, deliberate, efficient. The fabric sighs over my hips. The room smells like salt and something faintly metallic—his cologne, the island, the care that has gone into making this feel inevitable.
I stiffen. Not because I want to. Because this is the moment I promised myself to delay for as long as possible.
“Don’t,” I say, and the word comes out small. “I can reach it.”
He pauses, thumb resting above the zipper. For a breath he looks almost… surprised. Maybe at my voice, maybe at the hesitation. Then he nods and steps back, giving me the room to move. I turn and, walk into the huge closet before I finish unzipping the dress and stepping out of it.
“Don’t put anything on unless it’s—” he calls out, “—negligée. Lingerie. Something appropriate.”
There’s an edge in his voice that would have been funny two weeks ago. Now it sounds like instruction from a general, and I am, apparently, his conscript.
The suitcase yawns open on the bench. A satin robe folded like a promise. And then—God—what passes for sleepwear. It’s white because of course it’s white: gauzy, scandalously sheer, straps thin as whispers, cups cut low and loose so the slightest tug would expose more than might be prudent. Whoever packed this thought of function as an afterthought.
My heart kicks at the sight of it, a rhythm I’ll never admit to liking. The robe slips over my shoulders with a papery rustle. The satin belts tie, and for a moment I stand in the doorway between what I was and what I am asked to be.
He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him presses through the silk between us. “You look… beautiful,” he says, and the compliment is simple enough to slice something open inside me—no tenderness, just the factual recognition of a prize admired.
I immediately walk past him to the mini bar and give it a scan. I grab the tequila bottle since that’s what I went with on the plane. I was very tipsy but not near enough for what I know was about to happen.
I twist the cap open and pour a shot straight into one of the crystal tumblers. It splashes harder than I mean it to, trembling hands betraying me, and I toss it back so fast it practically burns a hole through my chest.
He watches me do it.
Like he’s waiting for me to stop shaking.
Like he enjoys that I’m shaking.
I grab the lime wedge from the tray and suck the citrus down, steadying my breath before I set both glass and lime on the marble counter.
“Just…” my voice breaks and I force it steady. “Give me ten minutes. Fifteen tops. Let the alcohol settle. Let me… breathe.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t soften.
He just closes the distance between us one slow, predatory step at a time—until his chest nearly brushes mine and he cages one hand at the bar beside me like a silent claim.
“Ten minutes,” he murmurs, voice low and dark against the back of my neck. “And then I’m done waiting.”