Chapter 10 The Breaking Point
Valentina
The door shuts behind Audrey and the temperature in the room changes.
Matteo’s posture straightens. The easy calm he’d worn all afternoon vanishes, replaced by something darker, heavier.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
His voice is low but sharp enough to cut glass. “And better question—why aren’t you wearing what I sent?”
I arch a brow. “Because you don’t get to use me like a puppet or dress-up doll.”
He steps closer. The air between us tightens.
“What do you think owning you means, Valentina?” he growls. “From where I stand, it means I can do whatever I damn well please—including telling you what to wear to keep up appearances as my soon-to-be wife.”
I hold my ground. “Appearances?”
“You’re supposed to look the part,” he snaps. “Not like—” He stops himself, then finishes with venom. “—not like a whore trying to make me look like a fool. Or maybe that’s what you want. Maybe you want me to treat you like one.”
Before I can move, he grabs my blouse and rips it open, popping off the few buttons that were actually buttoned. They hit the floor scattering across the office in different directions.
I shove him back, heat rising in my throat. “A whore? A sheer blouse and slacks are hardly that. You want to talk about dressing like a whore? Try Audrey—skirt barely covering anything, neckline down to her ribs. You could practically see her—”
He cuts in, voice cold. “Are you jealous?”
I laugh once, hard. “Of her? No. I just find pick-me women like that disgusting—using sex to climb ladders they didn’t build. She’s a wedding planner, Matteo. Not a mistress-for-hire. And she didn’t just flirt with you; she ignored me entirely. If I have to marry you, I’m damn well going to be respected.”
For a second, silence.
Then he moves.
One hand on my jaw, the other at my waist, pulling me in. His mouth crashes against mine—furious, claiming. The taste of espresso and danger.
For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
Then instinct takes over. I push hard against his chest.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
The word lands like a slap.
I turn and walk out, pulse roaring in my ears.
The hallway feels colder than before. I keep my head high, shoulders stiff, ignoring the sting of torn fabric brushing my ribs.
Rosco rounds the corner just as I pass. His brows lift; his gaze flicks to my blouse hanging open over black lace.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You forgot to button up.”
“Fuck off, Benetti,” I snap without stopping. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”
I don’t stop walking.
Not when I leave the hall, not when I pass the staircase, not even when my heels echo down the marble like gunfire.
By the time I reach my suite, my pulse is still thrumming. I shove the door open so hard it bounces against the wall. I forget to shut it.
I don’t care.
The blouse is off before I even hit the living room—buttons gone, fabric torn. It hits the floor like a casualty. I head straight for the closet, yank a fresh top from a hanger—black silk, clean lines—and pull it on with jerky, angry movements.
When I step back out, someone’s already there.
Carol.
She’s standing in the middle of the room, holding the ruined blouse between careful fingers.
“You left the door open, dear,” she says gently.
I don’t answer. I just walk past her, straight to the kitchenette. Right now, gratitude floods me that I have one at all—my own private kitchen, my own small mercy. It means I don’t have to see anyone else.
I open the fridge, grab a bottle of white wine.
Then my eyes catch the decanter of whiskey on the counter—amber liquid glinting like firelight.
I put the wine back.
This isn’t a wine moment.
This is definitely a whiskey moment.
I pour a glass. No ice. Just heat.
Carol watches, expression unreadable. “How did the wedding preparations go?”
I snort, swirling the glass. “The wedding planner’s a slut, and my fiancé’s a dick.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t comment.
I lift the glass slightly, like a toast. “Cheers to holy matrimony.”
Then I take a slow sip. It burns perfectly.
Carol smiles faintly. “Well,” she says after a moment, “why don’t you relax for a bit, dear? I’ll have your top mended.”
I glance at the torn fabric in her hands and shrug. “Don’t bother. He can just buy me a new one.”
Carol leaves quietly, the door closing with a soft click behind her.
The suite is still. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaks the silence.
I finish my drink, set the glass down, and walk toward the bedroom. The adrenaline’s gone now, leaving me hollow—but not empty. Just focused.
At the foot of my closet sits my suitcase, still half-unpacked from the hotel. I kneel beside it, unzip the lining, and lift the false bottom I built into it years ago.
Inside lies a single photograph.
I slide it out carefully, fingertips tracing the worn edges.
It’s me and my parents. The last picture we ever took together. My fifteenth birthday. The day they brought me Onyx.
I can still smell the hay, the sharp sweetness of apples, the warmth of his coat when he nuzzled my shoulder. A perfect jet-black stallion—my first real choice in a life full of orders.
My father stood behind me in the photo, a rare smile cracking his hard features. My mother’s hand rested on my arm, gentle but proud.
They’d chosen everything for me—my name, my tutors, my training. Guns. Knives. Martial arts. How to kill cleanly and disappear faster.
But the horses were mine. The only thing I ever wanted for myself.
I stare at that frozen moment, the sunlight caught in my hair, my father’s arm around me, all of us pretending we were a family that wasn’t built on blood and secrets.
My throat tightens.
“Don’t worry, Pa,” I whisper to the photograph. “I’m still on target.”
I slip the picture back into its hidden compartment and close the suitcase carefully, the way you’d close a promise.
“This is a long game,” I murmur. “I’ve just got to play it right.”