Chapter 8 Three Weeks
Valentina
I wake with a start.
For a moment, I forget where I am. The bed beneath me is too soft. The air too still. The ceiling above—high, molded, elegant—is unfamiliar.
Then it hits me.
The poker game. The shopping spree. The suite.
The wedding.
I groan, pressing my palms over my eyes. My head is thick with sleep, but the dread coils clean and sharp in my gut.
Apparently, wedding arrangements begin today.
I drag myself from the bed and pad across the warm floors toward the en suite. The mirror doesn’t lie—dark circles under my eyes, lips dry, skin pale.
Whatever. I’m not here to impress him.
I run through a quick skincare routine, brush my teeth, and rinse with cold water to shock myself into some kind of alertness. No makeup. Just a messy bun and one of the jogger-hoodie sets from yesterday’s haul. Charcoal gray. Comfortable. Neutral. Paired with sleek white sneakers.
This is the outfit of a woman who is not emotionally invested.
I’m just tugging the hoodie over my head when the sound of a doorbell makes me freeze.
A doorbell.
I stare at the front entrance like it just spoke to me.
I didn’t know I had a doorbell.
A moment later, Carol’s voice calls gently, “Miss Rossi?”
I open the door, and there she is—smiling, her arms full of a folded garment bag.
“I have a doorbell?” I ask flatly.
“Of course you do, dear.” She breezes in like she owns the place, heading for the vanity to hang the garment bag. “These rooms cover the square footage of a large apartment. If someone were to knock, you’d never hear it unless you were standing right next to the door.”
I blink. “Right. That… makes sense.”
She smooths the bag as if it’s her own child. “Mr. G asked me to fetch you. He’s waiting in the breakfast room. Says you’re to join him.”
I sigh. “Of course he is.”
“And make sure you eat,” she adds pointedly. “It’s going to be a long day.”
The breakfast room is straight out of an Italian countryside dream. Soft sunlight spills through arched windows. The walls are pale stone, the floors polished wood, and the long table in the center is… obscene.
A feast waits.
Pancakes, waffles, sliced fruits, hard-boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, bacon, cured meats, croissants, jams, cheeses, yogurt, granola. Fresh juice. Coffee. Even tea with a small pot of honey beside it.
Matteo sits at the head of the table. Calm. Composed. Reading something on his phone like it’s just another Tuesday.
He doesn’t look up as I approach.
But I’m not here to play starving princess. I’m famished.
So I make a plate. A real one. I load up scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, and a croissant, then pour myself a cup of coffee and take the seat directly across from him.
Finally, he glances up. “You’re hungry.”
“Observant.”
He sets his phone down. “Good. You’ll need the energy.”
I sip my coffee and raise a brow. “That ominous?”
He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t soften. “We have a lot to do.”
I stab a piece of melon with my fork. “What does ‘a lot’ entail?”
He leans back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “Finalizing the venue. Scheduling fittings. Preparing your guest list. Meeting with the planner. Florist. Hair and makeup consultations. Cake tasting, if you care about that sort of thing.”
My fork pauses midair. “I have a guest list?”
“If you’d like one.”
I scoff. “Sure. Let me just call up all the friends I don’t have and invite them to the wedding I didn’t know I was having.”
He doesn’t respond. Just continues, like I haven’t spoken at all.
“Photographer and security will also need to be briefed. I expect you to be available for meetings starting this afternoon.”
“I haven’t even agreed to the wedding yet,” I say flatly.
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “That’s where you’re mistaken.”
I clench my jaw and slice into my toast like it insulted me.
A tense silence stretches between us as I chew. Then I swallow and ask, “So when’s the big day?”
“Three weeks.”
I choke. Literally. I cough hard, covering my mouth as I reach for water.
“Three weeks?” I rasp.
“I wanted it sooner,” he says, like it’s perfectly reasonable. “But my grandfather is away. He’ll be returning then.”
“Your grandfather.” I set the glass down. “And what role does he play in this circus?”
“He expects to attend.”
“Oh. Well, if grandfather expects it, I suppose that changes everything.”
Matteo doesn’t laugh. Of course not.
I stare at him, trying to figure out what kind of person wakes up, looks at the woman he won in a game, and says, Yes. This is my bride.
He sips his espresso. Calm. Certain.
But beneath that stillness… something else is at play.
There has to be.
Because none of this makes sense.
Why marry a stranger? Why now? Why me?
Sure, he won me in a game. But this—this wedding—goes beyond ownership. It’s public. Binding. Legal. Permanent.
Men like him don’t do things without reason.
And I know what this looks like on the surface—some twisted flex of power, a prize to show off, a pet to parade.
But no.
There’s something I’m missing.
Something he’s not saying.
And whatever it is, I intend to find out.
After breakfast, I return to my rooms.
Carol is already inside, humming softly as she tucks a few things into the mini fridge. Fruit. Cheese. Bottled water. A pint of ice cream that makes me pause.
“I took the liberty of stocking you up a little,” she says without turning. “Just the basics. You can give me a more detailed list later if you’d like.”
I nod absently, eyes drifting to the garment bag hanging on the back of a nearby chair.
“What’s that?”
Carol glances over. “Oh, that? Mr. G wanted you to wear it to this afternoon’s meetings.”
Of course he did.
“Right,” I mutter. “Already dictating what I’m allowed to wear.”
Carol pretends not to hear the edge in my voice. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you again.”
And then she’s gone, leaving the room a little quieter than before.
I walk over, unzip the bag.
It’s beautiful. Expensive. Tailored with intention. Soft ivory fabric with structured lines—elegant, understated, clearly designed to project obedience.
I run my fingers over the sleeve.
Yeah… I’m not wearing this.
I may have to marry him.
But he’s going to learn that I am not his puppet.