Chapter 9 The Wrong Turn
Valentina
I don’t wear the dress.
Instead, I reach for black wide-leg slacks—high-waisted, tailored, the kind that make my legs look longer and my patience shorter. On top, a sheer white button-up blouse, slightly oversized, the fabric whisper-thin and breezy against my skin. I leave enough buttons undone to make a statement, the delicate lace of my black bra visible underneath. Heels finish the look—sleek, pointed, unapologetic.
Light makeup. Hair down in loose waves.
If Matteo wants a puppet bride, he’s going to have to yank harder on the strings.
By the time the clock hits twelve forty-five, I’m ready.
I was told to meet him in his office at one.
Small problem: I have no idea where that is.
I step into the hallway and pause. Left? Right? Straight?
I choose right.
Ten minutes later, I’m deep in a wing I definitely haven’t seen before. The walls are darker here, the floor lined with an expensive runner. The doors—heavy, carved, and shut—feel less welcoming and more… secretive.
I start quietly opening them one by one. Peek. Close. Repeat.
A study.
A gym.
A dark room filled with what I think is antique weaponry.
Nope.
I’m halfway through checking another door when a voice cuts through the silence.
“What exactly are you doing?”
I don’t even jump.
I just sigh and turn to find Rosco leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, watching me like he’s been there the whole time.
“I’m not sneaking,” I say before he can accuse me. “I’m trying to find Matteo’s office. And I’m trying not to barge in on someone mid-shower or whatever goes on in these rooms.”
He raises a brow. “Well, you should’ve taken a left at Albuquerque.”
I stare at him. “What?”
He groans. “Please tell me you’ve seen Looney Tunes.”
“No.”
“God, I’m old.” He pushes off the wall with a sigh. “Come on, it’s this way.”
I fall in step beside him, matching his pace.
“Why didn’t you ask Carol to show you?” he asks.
“I didn’t think about it until I’d already left my room and realized I had no clue where I was going.”
He glances over—then gives me a quick once-over. His eyes linger for just a second too long on the sheer blouse before he whistles low.
“Bold outfit choice,” he says. “And not at all the one the boss picked out.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t get to dictate what I wear.”
Rosco smirks. “Funny, considering I was the one who sent the chauffeur to pick it up.”
I blink.
He grins. “Didn’t think I was just a pretty face, did you?”
Rosco stops outside a tall set of double doors, polished to a mirror sheen.
“Well,” he says, gesturing grandly, “here we are.”
I eye the doors warily.
He takes a step back. “Good luck,” he adds with a grin. “You’re gonna need it.”
And then—he’s gone.
I inhale once, press my hand to the cool brass handle, and knock.
A moment later, Matteo’s voice answers.
“Come in.”
I push the door open and step inside, fully expecting an oversized desk, maybe a wall of books, some dark wood and minimal design.
What I don’t expect is the woman.
She’s perched on the arm of the leather couch like she owns the building. One leg crossed over the other, a folder in hand, and a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her skirt is far too short to be considered professional—and it rides even higher with the way she’s seated.
Her gaze flicks to me lazily, a smile playing on her red lips.
Matteo looks up from a file on his desk, his mouth already moving. “Ah, Valentina, you’re just on—”
He pauses.
A breath. A flicker of something in his eyes.
Then he clears his throat and finishes, “—time. This is Audrey, our wedding planner. She has a full schedule for us, so let’s get straight into it.”
Audrey uncrosses her legs and stands smoothly, her heels clicking against the floor as she closes the folder with a dramatic little snap.
“Can’t wait to get started,” she says, eyes never leaving mine.
Neither can I.
Let the games begin.
For several hours, Audrey went over absolutely everything that needed to be done.
Colors. Flowers. Table arrangements. Cake flavors. Seating charts. Guest lists. Venues.
She had us pick all of it.
Except, “us” mostly meant Matteo.
Every suggestion, every swatch of fabric, every sample plate—she angled toward him, her body leaning just a little too close, her laugh just a little too breathy.
And Matteo? He didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t shut it down either.
Not once did he say, “That’s enough.”
Not once did he correct her when she cut me off mid-sentence. Or when she referred to me as the bride like I wasn’t standing right fucking there.
I sat through it all with a blank expression and a silent fire building in my chest.
Because sure—I don’t care if she wants to screw him. Hell, be my guest. But it was the principle of it.
The audacity.
The fact that she likely acts like this with other couples—real couples. Couples who want to get married. Who are happy. Who love each other.
And she slinks her way between them, thinking it’s cute.
It’s not.
It’s sickening.
I didn’t agree to this wedding, but if I had… I’d burn her little clipboard first.
By the time Audrey finally snaps her planner shut and declares the day “wildly productive,” I’m ready to chew glass just to feel something else.
Matteo rises from his chair and shakes her hand. Of course he does. She gives him a lingering smile, promises to email him “the updated schedule,” and then finally—finally—clicks her heels out the door.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
I just look at him, waiting to see what he’ll say next.
If he notices.
If he dares.