Chapter 44 The Morning After
Valentina
I woke alone.
The sheets were still warm beside me, his imprint ghosting the mattress like a brand, but Matteo was gone.
Of course he was.
The bastard always knew how to disappear at just the right moment—leave me tangled up in consequences he created, lips swollen, thighs sore, heart pounding like it didn’t get the memo that he was the enemy.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
My body felt… foreign. Stretched. Claimed.
I hated the word that came to mind next.
Used.
But that wasn’t quite right either, was it? He didn’t force me. He didn’t tear my robe off or throw me onto the bed or growl mine like some animal finally unleashed.
No.
He took his time.
Watched me.
Unraveled me.
And I let him.
I let him.
God, what was wrong with me?
I rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up slowly. Everything felt sore. My thighs, my hips, my pride. Even the inside of my mouth ached a little from how hard I’d kissed him—like it mattered. Like I wanted to.
A part of me had.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the hot spray without waiting for it to warm. Maybe the shock would knock some sense back into me.
But all it did was make me remember.
His hands.
His voice.
The way he’d looked at me like I was something precious and breakable—right before breaking me wide open.
I braced my palms against the tile, water sluicing down my back, and squeezed my eyes shut.
You’re a liar, I told myself.
You don’t want him. You don’t need him. He is the enemy. He ruined your life.
So why did your body sing for him last night?
Why did you come—twice?
Why are you aching for him now, even as you try to wash him off?
I scrubbed harder, fingertips digging into my skin like I could erase every place he’d touched. But the scent of him still clung to me—leather and cedar and lust and something darker I couldn’t name.
And God help me…
Part of me didn’t want it gone.
Steam curled around me as I stepped out of the shower, towel-drying my hair with the kind of reckless aggression reserved for self-loathing. I caught my reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, a faint bruise blooming just above my collarbone.
A mark.
Not from pain. From him.
I looked away.
Hanging on the hook behind the door was a robe. Soft, white, luxurious. Probably the kind rich wives wore while sipping champagne during spa days. I slipped it on anyway. My skin was still damp and tight from the heat of the water, and the robe hugged me like a guilty secret.
The villa was quiet. Too quiet. I padded barefoot toward the walk-in closet, the floor cool beneath my toes. Sunlight streamed in through slatted windows, the light as golden as the tequila I hadn’t finished last night.
In the corner, my dress lay in a silky puddle where I’d stepped out of it.
I bent to pick it up, fingers brushing the fine fabric. Ivory satin, custom-stitched, probably worth more than the average wedding. And there it was—one more thing that made this whole marriage feel fake… except for the fact that I’d bled for it.
I found a hanger and draped the dress over it gently. No sense in mistreating something that beautiful. Or expensive.
Rifling through my suitcase, I pulled out a pair of soft, frayed denim shorts and a little white tank top that clung in all the wrong—or maybe right—places. It was warm here. The kind of warm that made your skin feel kissed just for existing. The kind of warm that made winter in Manhattan feel like another world entirely.
I wasn’t dressing for him.
This wasn’t about him.
It was about coffee.
I needed caffeine before my brain could start back up and remind me just how royally fucked I was—emotionally, physically, matrimonially.
I opened the door to the hallway and followed my nose, hoping the kitchen was stocked, and that Matteo hadn’t flown off to the mainland to buy a crib or plan baby names.
Because if he had, I might actually kill him a lot sooner than planned.
The scent hit me first—dark roast, strong, and just this side of sinful. I followed it through the open-air hallway into the villa’s kitchen, where matte stone counters met floor-to-ceiling windows and a full tropical garden swayed just outside.
Matteo stood at the island, coffee mug in one hand, his other braced casually on the counter like this was his morning routine and I hadn’t spent the night moaning under him like some goddamn possession.
“Good morning, my beautiful bride,” he said, voice smooth and rich, just like the coffee.
My brows pulled together, lips parting to bite something sharp and sarcastic back—
But then I caught the shift of motion behind him.
A woman in a neat maid’s uniform exited the pantry with a small basket of herbs in her arms. Her eyes met mine for a flash—curious, not unfriendly—and suddenly I understood.
The script. The game.
I adjusted my tone, slipped on the smile that had kept me alive for years. “Good morning, husband.”
Matteo’s grin deepened.
I moved toward the coffeepot like I wasn’t internally combusting, pouring myself a generous cup. The first sip burned my tongue and I welcomed it. Pain meant I was awake. Alert. Still me.
The dining table was already laid out with breakfast: piles of fresh fruit, pastries so flaky they looked like they’d shatter from a breath, golden toast stacked like bricks beside crispy bacon.
I sat down.
Barely two minutes later, the same maid reappeared with a steaming omelet and gently set it in front of me.
I blinked. “That was fast.”
Matteo sipped his coffee and gave me a knowing look. “I already had her working on it. Thought I’d bring it up to you after I finished mine—but you beat me to it.”
The omelet smelled divine—spinach, feta, tomato—but I hesitated, unsure what game he was playing now.
“How are you feeling?” he asked next. “Are you sore?”
I stiffened. My gaze flicked to the maid, who was still within earshot, and I shot him a glare.
His expression didn’t change.
“She’s fine,” he said easily, waving his hand like the woman was a piece of furniture. “Pretend she’s not even here.”
I pressed my lips together, cheeks hot. Not from embarrassment—at least not entirely. But from the fact that my body was sore, tender in places I didn’t want to think about. Places that had no business aching after a night like that.
But it had felt good.
Too good.
And I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not in front of strangers. Not in front of him.
So I picked up my fork, cut into the omelet, and forced a smile I didn’t feel.