Chapter 7 The Bomb
Valentina
“What do you mean our wedding?”
The words come out too fast, too sharp. But I don’t care. I need clarity, and I need it now.
Matteo doesn’t even blink.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” he says, like we’re talking about a dinner reservation. “Rosco will be waiting for you at the car in twenty minutes.”
And then—he leaves.
Just like that.
Like he didn’t just set my entire world on fire and walk away from the smoke.
I don’t move. Not for a full minute. My mind is still catching up to the words.
Our wedding.
I thought he was bluffing during the poker game—playing it up for drama, for ego, for the effect it would have on the room. When he said, “I could marry you. Fuck you. Mount you like a trophy,” I assumed it was performance. A threat meant to rattle me. To claim dominance.
But now?
Now it feels like a plan. A schedule. A contract that was already signed in ink I never saw.
I press a hand to my chest. My heart’s not racing. It’s pulsing steady. Controlled. But under that calm, there’s heat.
So this is how he plays it.
I grab my bag and head to the closet, pulling out something simple but sharp. Black cigarette pants, a cream blouse, low-heeled boots. Minimal makeup. Slick ponytail. No weakness in sight.
By the time I step outside, the sky is pale with morning haze, and the air smells faintly of wet stone.
Rosco is waiting by the car—same SUV as before, but this time the driver’s seat is already occupied.
Rosco opens the back door for me without a word. I hesitate just long enough to clock the change.
Then I slide in.
To my surprise, he follows.
I raise a brow. “I see you’re playing chauffeur again.”
He shuts the door, buckles in. “I’m not the chauffeur. He is.” He nods toward the driver.
“Then what are you?”
“Bodyguard.”
I study him. “Still seems below your pay grade.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have anything to do anyway. I get bored easily.”
Then, without looking at me, he adds, “Plus… and don’t tell anyone this or I’ll kill you—but I love shopping.”
I blink. “Shopping?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what this is?” He finally glances over. “You need basically everything, right? So let’s go get it.”
I don’t respond right away.
Because honestly, I’m still stuck on the fact that I woke up free and before my breakfast even digested I’m engaged to the man who killed my entire bloodline.
But sure.
Let’s go shopping.
We arrive fifteen minutes later at a shopping center that looks more like a gated estate than a retail strip. White-gloved valets. Window displays that look like art installations. Boutiques with names whispered, not spoken.
As the SUV slows to a stop, I glance at Rosco.
“No budget, right?”
He smirks. “Not unless you count suspicion as a price.”
Inside the first boutique, everything is soft gold and champagne velvet. Minimalist, high-end, meant to intimidate. The kind of store where if you have to ask the price, you shouldn’t be here.
I walk the first row with quiet efficiency. Pick out a few blouses, a pair of trousers, and two dresses—neutral tones, high tailoring. I hold them up.
“These will do.”
Rosco raises an eyebrow. “That’s enough for like two days.”
“And with what I brought,” I reply, “it’s enough for me to send for the rest of my wardrobe.”
He folds his arms. “Nope.”
“No?”
He leans in slightly. “The boss is expecting us to spend some money today. If we don’t, he’s going to find that… highly suspicious.”
I arch a brow. “Suspicious?”
“Yeah. As in, you’re planning to break the binding contract agreed upon in the game.” He shrugs. “And that will not be good.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Then I sigh, sharp and dramatic.
“Fine.”
I turn to the associate. “Start a counter pile.”
She perks up immediately. “Of course, Miss.”
From there, I start grabbing like a woman with amnesia and a platinum card. Casual dresses, matching sets, slacks, silk tops, structured jackets. I don’t even look at the price tags. It’s all calculated—enough to look indulgent, not reckless.
Rosco nods once, approving. “There we go.”
We move to the next boutique—cleaner lines, floor-length mirrors, gowns displayed on mannequins like they belong in a gallery.
“I don’t need formalwear,” I mutter as we walk in.
“You do now,” Rosco says.
I roll my eyes, but he’s already browsing. The bastard’s got taste, too. He picks out three gowns—one blood red, one midnight blue, and one with a backless silhouette that makes the associate blush just holding it.
Then he finds a rack of cocktail dresses.
“I don’t even know what we’re dressing for,” I say.
“You don’t need to know.” He smirks. “You just need to look better than everyone else.”
I grab five pairs of heels to match and call it even.
Next boutique—casual luxury. Jeans that feel like silk. Sweaters made from baby alpaca or some endangered cloud. I stock up—leggings, joggers, hoodies soft enough to sleep in. Lounge wear that still says don’t talk to me unless your net worth has at least two commas.
Then I pause. Look across the walkway.
Lingerie.
Rosco follows my line of sight.
“Don’t need to,” he says.
“I do,” I counter. “Unless you think I’m planning on going commando under these thousand-dollar dresses.”
He shrugs. “Fair.”
I start heading that way.
He follows.
I stop. Turn. “You’re going to shop for underwear with me?”
Rosco doesn’t blink. “Sweetheart, this ain’t the first time I’ve seen a pair of panties.”
I snort. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m realistic.”
Inside, the lighting is moodier. Music softer. Satin and lace whispering from every hanger. I let the salesgirl trail behind me while I pick—black lace bras, neutral seamless sets, sleepwear that toes the line between demure and dangerous.
Rosco leans against the wall like he’s part of the decor. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t comment.
But he watches everything.
On the way out, he finally says, “You’re gonna kill him in that red one.”
“I don’t plan to wear it for him.”
Rosco chuckles. “Whatever you say.”
The last stop is a beauty store—cool, bright, clinical. White marble counters, chrome fixtures, everything labeled in expensive fonts.
Skincare, hair care, high-end makeup. I choose fast but thoroughly. Serums. Moisturizers. A new perfume—spicy and citrus with a hint of vanilla. It smells like someone you don’t say no to.
By the time we’re done, the back of the SUV looks like a boutique exploded inside it. The driver’s been rotating bags between stores the whole time, wordless and efficient.
Rosco nods in satisfaction. “That’s more like it.”
“Think we passed inspection?”
He shrugs. “If we didn’t, we’ll do another run in a few days.”
I glance at the bags. At myself.
At him.
For a second, it almost feels normal. Shopping. Joking. Spending someone else’s money.
But nothing about this is normal.
Not the man beside me.
Not the card in my hand.
And definitely not the ring that’s already waiting.