Chapter 13 The Courtyard
Valentina
It was late.
Too late to still be awake, but my body wasn’t interested in sleep.
I wrapped my robe tighter around myself, padded barefoot to the kitchenette, and flicked on the electric kettle. A cup of jasmine tea would help—or at least give me something warm to hold. While it steeped, I grabbed one of the plush throws draped over the arm of the reading chair and headed out to the courtyard and placed it on the lounger. Then went back inside to grab my tea.
The night air was cold. Biting, even. But after spending most of my life in Northern Europe, winter felt more like a memory than a threat. The chill grounded me. Cleared the noise.
The courtyard was quiet—walled in by six-foot hedges, stone pillars, and the deep hush of money. A private garden for a woman who’d just been “won” like a prize.
I tucked the blanket around my legs, lifted the mug to my lips, and let out a sigh.
Peace.
Almost.
Headlights flickered through the hedge. Then the faint crunch of tires on gravel.
I tilted my head. A car. Someone was back.
A door opened. Muffled voices carried on the wind.
I heard a woman first. Her tone flirtatious. Then a man—low, familiar.
Rosco.
“Come on, babe. I’ve got a bed and a cock with your name on it.”
I choked on my tea.
Are you fucking kidding me?
There was giggling. Then another voice.
Matteo.
Wait—what?
I froze. Listened. But I couldn’t make out the words.
Rosco’s voice had been clear, walking toward the front, probably toward the guest wing. But Matteo had come from the same direction. And the woman was still here.
There were two of them?
Or worse… one woman. Two men.
Gross.
I set my mug down and stood.
I scanned the walls of the courtyard. There had to be a gate somewhere. The hedges didn’t trim themselves, and I doubted a landscaper was hauling clippers over the wall every week.
Sure enough, tucked between two thick hedges and camouflaged like part of the landscaping, was a narrow wooden gate. I pushed it open gently, letting the latch click softly behind me.
The air on the other side was colder. Open.
The gravel path curved around the mansion. Voices grew louder with every step.
Another breath. Another turn.
And then I saw them.
Matteo.
Bent over the hood of his Maserati.
His hand on the back of a blonde woman’s neck, guiding her face-down into the gleaming black paint.
His other hand yanked up her too-short skirt.
Her moans sliced through the air, high and pleased.
My stomach turned.
Not out of jealousy.
If he was busy fucking someone else, that meant he wasn’t trying to fuck me. And that was a win. A reprieve.
But it also meant reality was coming. Sooner or later, Matteo Genovese was going to decide it was my turn. That I owed him something—by virtue of that stupid poker hand and the even stupider contract it birthed.
He’d say it was part of the image. Part of being his wife.
I’d call it what it was: ownership.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched for another second. The woman was barely coherent, her laugh slurred, all teeth and glittering heels. He thrust into her like she was nothing. Like she was no one.
Maybe she was.
It didn’t matter.
I wasn’t going to be humiliated like that.
Not by him.
Not in this place.
And I’d be damned if I was going to catch some disease from him dragging his dick through the city’s discount selection.
I could march over there right now. Grab that Barbie-wannabe by the hair. Tell her to find someone else’s billionaire cock to ride.
But I didn’t.
Because that would look like jealousy. And I didn’t do jealousy.
Instead, I turned on my heel and walked back the way I came. Calm. Quiet. Cold.
I closed the gate gently behind me, stepped back into my courtyard, and reclaimed my seat.
My tea had gone cold.
So had my patience.
But when I talked to Matteo tomorrow?
I’d do it the same way I did everything else:
Calculated.
Controlled.
Dead calm.
Because if he wanted a wife…
He was going to have to learn what it meant to keep one.