Chapter 3
Matteo came back long after midnight, carrying amber on his skin.
I had been awake for hours, but the scent reached me before he did, sweet, expensive, unmistakably Vanessa. My stomach turned so sharply that I had to cross into the bathroom and grip the marble sink until the nausea passed.
Matteo followed me to the doorway. “Did something you ate upset you?”
“No,” I said, rinsing my mouth. “It’s the perfume.”
His expression tightened. “I took Vanessa home because she was unwell. Don’t make it uglier than it is.”
That tone was new. Not loud, not cruel, but impatient in a way he had never been with me before.
I looked at him through the mirror. “You gave her access to the Donna wing.”
“It was temporary.”
“You removed your signet.”
His jaw worked once. “I didn’t want the captains turning it into a succession issue before the ceremony.”
I almost laughed. “So you protected her position by erasing mine.”
“Elena, that isn’t what happened.”
“Then tell me what happened at dinner. Why did you call me an arrangement?”
His eyes darkened. “You agreed with me.”
“After you left me no other title to stand on.”
For a moment, guilt moved across his face, but it disappeared before it could become an apology. I turned off the faucet and asked the only question that still mattered.
“Was any of this real to you?”
Matteo looked at me, his throat shifting once, but he gave me no answer.
The silence did what his words could not.
I nodded and walked past him, but he followed me into the bedroom. “Elena, don’t turn this into something final.”
“When is the next ceremony date?”
He stopped.
I looked back at him. “The council confirmation. The civil registration. The public record. Whatever name you want to give it. When?”
His silence stretched too long.
Then he said, “We don’t have to rush. What we have now works.”
That was when something in me went very still.
What we had now worked for him because I warmed his bed, steadied his council, wore his name when useful, and disappeared when Vanessa needed the room.
That night, I moved into the guest suite.
Matteo stood in the hall, watching me carry my own pillow and a stack of files from our room. “Is this necessary?”
“Yes.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue, then only exhaled and returned to the master bedroom. The door closed behind him with a soft click, but it sounded final enough.
The next morning, I went to a private prenatal clinic under my own name. The doctor confirmed the pregnancy, explained what I needed to watch, and asked whether my husband would be involved in the next appointment.
I looked at the ultrasound image, small and impossible and mine.
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
By the time I left, I had already made my decision. I called the Florence restoration studio to confirm my start date. They had offered me the lead position on a Medici reliquary restoration, the kind of work I had once delayed because Matteo wanted me in New York.
After that, I contacted a lawyer who had handled Rossi contracts for years and asked her to prepare a separation notice from the De Luca alliance.
Matteo called that afternoon.
His voice was softer than the night before. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“I have to leave the city for a few days. Council issue in Boston. Call me if you need anything.”
“Of course.”
He hesitated. “About last night… I owe you an apology.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Elena.”
“I’m working, Matteo.”
I ended the call before he could turn regret into another delay.
That evening, I packed only what mattered: my restoration tools, the prenatal report, my passport, the Florence contract, and the jewelry that belonged to the Rossi side of my life. The obsidian brooch stayed in its velvet case on Matteo’s desk.
After that, I left the penthouse and checked into a small serviced apartment under my mother’s maiden name. I did not tell my parents yet, because the moment the Rossi house knew, the De Luca house would know too. I needed one clean night where no one from either family could tell me what I owed them.
Near midnight, Matteo sent a photo of a hotel corridor, then the city skyline from a high window.
Council meeting ran late. I’ll be back soon.
I did not answer.
An hour later, my phone lit up again.
Vanessa.
No words. Only a photo.
A private jet cabin, two glasses of whiskey, and the flight screen behind them showing Palm Beach instead of Boston. Matteo’s black jacket was folded over the back of Vanessa’s seat, and his De Luca signet sat beside her lipstick on the table.
So that was his council issue.
Pain pulled low through my abdomen, sharp enough to make my breath catch. I sat very still until it passed, one hand pressed over the child he did not know existed, and finally understood that Matteo had not been taken from me.
He had walked away.
The next morning, his messages filled my screen: a staged photo of a conference room, a dinner receipt from some restaurant he wanted me to believe in, then a picture of a sapphire bracelet.
Don’t be angry. I saw this and thought of you.
Elena, answer me.
Pick up.
I looked at the bracelet and felt nothing but exhaustion.
Then I typed three words.
We are done.
After that, I blocked his number, deleted his access to my studio calendar, and sent the signed separation notice to my lawyer.
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