Chapter 30 The Morning Show
Valentina
Matteo had warned me last night—well, more like informed me—that we’d be having breakfast in the formal dining room with his grandfather. No casual coffee in bed, no tray service, just me, him, and the man who could slice through bullshit with a single arched brow.
So I dressed accordingly.
Messy bun. No makeup. Yoga pants. Oversized hoodie. The picture of cozy, lived-in comfort.
I wasn’t going to play the over-glamorous fiancée at eight in the damn morning. Real couples didn’t wake up with winged eyeliner and silk gowns. They trudged into kitchens with eye boogers and mismatched socks and hoped no one judged their cereal choices. If we were going to sell this, then this—this stripped-down version of me—was the best lie I could tell.
Matteo caught sight of me just as I was rounding the corner toward the dining room. He stopped mid-step like I’d slapped him.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
I gave him my most innocent smile. “Clothes.”
“You look like a college student with a hangover.”
“Perfect,” I chirped, stepping past him. “That’s exactly the vibe I’m going for.”
He caught up to me in two strides. “We’re supposed to be convincing him we’re in love. Not that I dragged you out of a frat house.”
I shrugged. “Relax. This’ll sell it better than all your tailored blazers combined. Only real couples are comfortable enough to show up like this.” I tugged at the hem of my hoodie. “This says intimacy. Familiarity. Trust me, Matteo. Not everything needs a tux.”
He muttered something under his breath, but didn’t stop me from walking into the dining room first.
Alessio was already seated, newspaper folded in front of him, coffee in hand. He looked up—and grinned.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” he said, setting down his cup. “A woman comfortable in her own skin. No one needs to be dressed to the nines twenty-four-seven.”
I gave Matteo a pointed glance before turning to Alessio. “I do yoga in the mornings,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. “I feel like breakfast should be about enjoying the start of a new day. A little peace before the chaos.”
He laughed—a rich, genuine sound. “Couldn’t agree more. In fact, tomorrow, I’ll join you in wearing sweats for breakfast.”
Matteo made a strangled sound beside me.
I sipped my coffee and smiled sweetly. “I look forward to it, Grandfather.”
Alessio smiled as Carol brought in a fresh pot of coffee and refilled our mugs. The sunlight spilled through the high windows, casting warm gold over the long table. Everything felt oddly… normal.
“So,” he said, stirring cream into his coffee, “how was your movie night?”
I glanced at Matteo, who leaned back with a casual arm draped behind my chair like we hadn’t staged a whole romantic evening for this man’s benefit.
“It was good,” I said easily. “Nice to just relax for once. With all the wedding planning and moving pieces, a quiet night in was exactly what we needed.”
Matteo hummed in agreement, offering a slight nod. “It felt good to breathe.”
Alessio chuckled. “I’m glad. Though I noticed something else last night.”
I raised a brow.
“You two have separate suites.”
Matteo stiffened beside me.
I took a slow sip of coffee and smiled. “Yes. That’s correct.”
His eyes twinkled with mischief, clearly waiting for an explanation.
And honestly? I was tired of pretending to be someone else. So I gave him the truth.
“Well, you see…” I set my mug down and folded my hands. “I’m actually still a virgin.”
Matteo choked.
Like, literal sputtering, near-death experience over his espresso.
Alessio’s brows shot up, and he turned a slow, deliberate gaze toward his grandson.
Matteo coughed once, twice—and then nodded, eyes watering.
I tilted my head. “What? Never heard of a woman owning her virtue and being proud of it before?”
Alessio barked a laugh. “Actually… no. Most people try to keep that kind of thing quiet.”
“Well, I was never interested in all that during high school or college,” I said with a shrug. “I was—and still am—driven. Focused. The right time just never came. And now?” I glanced sideways at Matteo. “I’m not sure I trust him to keep his hands to himself until the wedding. So separate rooms it is.”
Alessio was outright cackling now.
“And honestly?” I added, reaching for my toast. “If he snores, I might keep my own suite even after we’re married.”
Matteo made a strangled noise of protest, but I just grinned.
Alessio wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, I like you.”
Carol moves like a quiet tide, clearing plates with the sort of efficiency that makes me grateful I don’t have to pretend to be helpless. She hums under her breath as she slides the last dish toward the sideboard.
Alessio watches her for a beat, head cocked. “She usually doesn’t do the serving, does she? The younger girl — the one who had been here for a couple of years. I haven’t seen her since I arrived.”
I feel Matteo shift beside me, a small tightening at my elbow. I decide it’s time to own the moment.
“Oh, I fired her,” I say, flat and clean, like I’m announcing the weather.
Alessio blinks. “You did?”
“You?” Matteo asks, voice thin.
I set my cup down deliberately. “Yes. Me. I told her there would be no flirting with my fiancé in my presence. I warned her once politely. Then again. She laughed, dropped his fork on purpose, and bent over his lap so she could make it seem like an accident.” I shrug, contempt curling my lips. “Half her ass was hanging out. Not the kind of thing you do in a respectable house. I reminded her of the rules. She didn’t take it seriously. So I let her go.”
Alessio’s expression slides from surprise to a slow smile, not unkind. “Good girl,” he says with a little clap of his hands, the sound harmless in his mouth and absolute in intent. “No one should be disrespecting the lady of the house. Men can be forgiven for their appetites — women who encourage them cannot.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens. He opens his mouth—then closes it. He looks at me like he is measuring out a reaction and finding it wanting.
I lift a shoulder. “She chose to be an idiot. I won’t apologize for showing that kind of behavior the door.”
Alessio chuckles. “I like her spine.” He swivels his glass in his hand and eyes Matteo with the kind of grandfatherly appraisal that reads like verdict and benediction at once. “You have good taste, Matteo. Smart, sharp, doesn’t take shit. The family could do worse.”
Matteo’s gaze flicks to me. For a second—just a second—there’s something like approval there. Or maybe it’s calculation.
When the plates are finally cleared and Alessio rises with a satisfied little grunt, he pats Matteo’s shoulder. “Keep her sharp, boy. A good woman makes a man better. Don’t waste her.”
“Noted,” he says.
And just like that, the chessboard tilts another degree.