Chapter 15 The Fitting
Valentina
I make it halfway down the hall before my phone chimes.
A text from Matteo.
Matteo:
Be ready by 10:30.
We have an appointment at eleven.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Of course. No greeting. No explanation. Just a command.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating between go to hell and sure, boss, but I settle on nothing. He’ll get silence.
By the time I get back to my suite, I’m already bracing myself for the day. But when I open the door, Carol’s there—already making the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s humming again, something soft and old-fashioned.
Another text.
Matteo:
Must I remind you that I expect acknowledgement when I speak to you? That goes for both in person and electronic communication.
I groan and roll my eyes before sending a reply.
Me:
Yes Master!
I hope he feels every ounce of sarcasm that text was laced with.
Matteo:
Next time there will be punishment.
I just put a thumbs up reaction on his last text. I’m not responding to that. How would he punish me anyway—force me to marry me? Oh wait, he’s already doing that.
A folded stack of laundry rests on the armchair, and the faint scent of linen and lavender fills the room.
Carol looks up the moment I walk in. “Good morning, dear.” Then her smile falters. “What’s the matter? You look like you swallowed a lemon.”
I hold up my phone. “Apparently, I’m trying on wedding dresses today.”
Her face lights up instantly. “Oh! Well that should be a happy, fun time!” she says brightly, moving to fluff the pillows. “Every bride deserves that moment—the dress, the mirror, the excitement. I’m sure your mother and best girlfriend will make sure you pick out the perfect one.”
I pause. The words hit harder than they should.
“I—” I start, then clear my throat. “No. There won’t be anyone there.”
Carol stops mid-fluff. “Oh?”
I force a small shrug. “My parents were killed when I was a teenager. Car accident.” I lie and gesture vaguely. “And I’ve lived in Europe most of my life, so… no family. No friends here. Just—me.”
Her expression softens, all that cheerful energy folding into quiet concern.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says gently, setting the pillow down and coming closer. “That won’t do at all.”
I blink at her, unsure what to say.
“You shouldn’t have to go through something like this alone,” she continues. “Would you like me to come with you? I can be your support person. Hold your purse. Tell you you’re stunning when you find the right one.”
The corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. “You’d do that?”
Carol smiles. “Of course. Every bride needs someone in her corner.”
I exhale slowly. “Alright. Yeah. That would be… nice, actually.”
“Good,” she says, clapping her hands softly once. “Then it’s settled. I’ll be ready by 10:15. Now—let’s get you some breakfast before we make a princess out of you.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “Princess isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”
“Then queen it is,” she says firmly, giving me a wink. “And don’t you forget it.”
At 10:25, I’m standing by the front doors in black slacks and a cream blouse—simple but sharp. Carol’s right beside me, buttoning her coat, humming something under her breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.
The black SUV pulls up to the steps.
Rosco climbs out of the driver’s seat, and Matteo steps from the passenger side in a perfectly tailored suit, phone still in hand. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but his jaw flexes when he sees us.
“Carol,” he says, voice clipped. “Do you need something?”
I answer before she can.
“Oh, she’s coming with us.” I cross my arms. “And that’s non-negotiable.”
Matteo just blinks once, processing the boldness. His expression doesn’t change, but the air between us does—tightening, stretching.
Before he can respond, Carol adds softly but firmly, “Every girl needs her mother—or the closest thing to one—when picking out her wedding dress. And since Miss Rossi doesn’t have a mother, I suppose I’m the closest thing she’s got.”
A flicker of something unreadable crosses Matteo’s face. Then he simply slides his phone into his pocket and opens the rear door.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Rosco drives. Matteo sits up front. And Carol and I take the back seat, her hand resting lightly over mine as the car pulls away from the mansion.
For the first time in days, I almost feel like I’m not walking into a trap.
Almost.