Nine
Matteo
W e sit together on the couch, the gas fireplace casting a soft amber glow across the room.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this settled—this content.
Her presence wraps around me like a second skin.
Not invasive. Just…right. Like she belongs in my space, and I never knew how much I needed that until now.
Ellory makes everything feel lighter. Brighter.
Like the hard edges of my life soften around her.
She handled Amelia like a natural earlier, even when her silk sweater took a direct hit of carrot purée. Most people would’ve bolted. She didn’t flinch. She laughed. I think I fell harder for her in that moment than I have at any point before.
I glance over, grinning. “So…do you sleep on the right side of the bed or the left?”
She tilts her head, amused. “I’ve always wondered how people decide that. Is it your right when you’re lying down? Or your right when you’re standing at the foot of the bed? Or is it just one of those unspoken things couples figure out without ever saying anything?”
“You’re dodging,” I tease.
A soft blush creeps up her neck, and I lean in, dropping my voice. “I want to take you to my room and do so many fun—and filthy—things to you.”
Her lips part. “But?”
I press a kiss to her mouth. It starts soft, a brush of intention. But then her lips part for mine, and suddenly, there’s heat. Hunger. Her taste hits me like a match to dry tinder—wine and wild freedom—and I’m gone.
I deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, already half-crazed with need. But she leans back slightly, chest rising and lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Do you want more?” she asks, voice sultry.
“Yes.” It’s barely a breath.
“Are you sure?”
Before I can answer, she swings a leg over me and straddles my lap. Her arm loops around my neck, and she kisses me again—deeper, bolder, like she owns me. And maybe she does.
My body reacts instantly. No pretense, no patience left.
I’m hard against the zipper of my jeans, aching for her.
My hands slide over her hips, her ass, up her back.
I cup her breasts through my shirt, thumbs teasing over the peaks.
Her body arches into mine as I rock against her, chasing every bit of contact I can get.
And then—Amelia.
Her soft cry crackles through the baby monitor like a thunderclap.
Ellory freezes. Slowly, she climbs off my lap and smooths her skirt. Her body lingers against mine, her scent still clinging to my skin, my arousal sharp and throbbing with nowhere to go. I let out a long breath and press my hand to my forehead, silently cursing the timing.
“Don’t call Richard yet,” I say, already rising. “I’ll be right back.”
She nods, and I slip into the nursery.
Amelia’s twisted in her blanket, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat. I gently untangle her, whispering softly as I change her into dry pajamas. She’s fussy but not inconsolable. I settle into the glider and rock her.
She quiets in my arms, her tiny fingers curling around mine.
By the time I return to the living room, Ellory is standing with her coat draped over one arm, purse in hand, phone ready. Prepared to leave.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I admit.
“Kids add an entirely different dimension to a relationship,” she says softly. Her voice is calm, but I catch the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She’s processing, deciding if this is something she can carry.
I nod, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. “I know. I’m trying. I really am.”
“I know you are.” Her voice is gentle. “And I’m not going anywhere. Besides, we’ve got that design meeting next week with Dante—stones to choose, styles to finalize. No way I’m missing that.”
I step closer and kiss her forehead, letting it linger. “I’ll take whatever parts of you you’ll give me.”
She kisses me back—slow, deep, unhurried. When she pulls away, her lips are pink and kiss-bruised, her eyes soft.
“I was thinking,” she says as she slips on her coat, “maybe you and Amelia could come to my place later this week? I’ve got a guest room. She can sleep there once she’s down.”
I smile, the ache in my chest easing just a little. “I’d love that.”
Letting her go tonight still feels like torture. But one day—maybe soon—I won’t have to.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask, pausing at the threshold of Dante’s office.
He doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over a dozen rough diamonds, each one laid out like sacred offerings on black velvet. “These should give the designers strong direction,” he murmurs. “Good range—cuts, colors, inclusions. Enough to show what’s possible when you think creatively.”
They look like shards of frozen light, but I know better. These aren’t just minerals. They’re ancient. Formed over billions of years under impossible pressure. Every stone is a story.
“How’s demand?” I ask. Fashion Week sent a surge of inquiries our way. We’re mostly fielding calls for accessories. If Olivier does this line, things will really change.
“The primary pipe will cover it,” Dante replies. “But people still think ‘imperfect’ means ‘inexpensive.’ Glass fakes are flying. We need to serialize the real ones, but first, I want to see how they perform in finished pieces.”
“Good,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The ride to Olivier is mostly quiet—typical Dante. The car hums beneath us, but my nerves won’t settle. We’re on our way to Olivier and Ellory’s office, and the thought of seeing her again has my chest tight. It shouldn’t feel this big, but it does.
“How’s Amelia sleeping?” Dante asks.
“Better. Trixie has her on a schedule.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
I shift in the seat. “It’s…limiting.” Routine works for Amelia, but it reminds me how little control I have.
He turns to me. “Are you seeing Ellory?”
The question hits harder than I want to admit. “I want to. It’s complicated.”
“You’ve got Trixie.”
I meet his gaze, sharper than I mean to. “Trixie isn’t paid to raise my daughter.”
He lets the silence stretch, waiting me out. He always knows when I’m holding back.
Am I ready for something real?
Can I give Ellory more than stolen moments when so much of me already belongs to Amelia?
What if I open the door, only to disappoint them both?
The doubts press heavier than the hope. And still, underneath it all, I can’t stop wanting her.
I sigh. “It’s not just logistics. I went from a guy with no attachments to being a single dad overnight. I don’t always know what I’m doing. I like Ellory—a lot. Before Amelia, I’d have pursued her without a second thought. She’s not some fling. She’s…more. But everything changed.”
“She goes to bed at seven,” Dante says. “You used to go out at ten. What’s really holding you back?”
I stare out the window.
“Trixie lives with you.”
“But she has a life and a boyfriend.”
“Make a plan. Take Ellory out. Wine her. Dine her. Let her know you want her.”
Damn. He’s right. I could. I should.
But then the car stops, and all rational thought disintegrates.
We step out, and my chest tightens. The air feels thinner as we move through the store, every step carrying me closer to Ellory.
We’re ushered upstairs, and though the offices are elegant yet understated, I barely take it in.
The framed, poster-sized photographs of their designs should command attention, but my focus is scattered, my pulse uneven.
We’re shown into a bright seating area that overlooks Union Square.
I stand near the glass for a moment, pretending to watch the shoppers drifting in and out of the stores, the vendors setting up their stalls below.
In truth, I’m trying to calm the rush of nerves, to look collected when inside I’m anything but.
Ellory walks in.
Red wrap dress. Plunging neckline. Cinched waist. Hips that sway like a challenge. And those heels—sharp, glossy, unapologetically sinful.
My jaw goes slack. Every rational thought evaporates. I forget how to stand, breathe, function. I immediately regret wearing anything fitted.
“Great to see you both,” she says, her smile smooth and confident. “Come upstairs. The designers are waiting.”
We follow her. I fall in step behind, and her scent—floral, with just enough spice to be dangerous—wraps around me like a dare.
She leads us into a sunlit, high-ceilinged conference room. Easels line the walls, and a massive glass table anchors the center, surrounded by deep red leather chairs. Five designers are already gathered, portfolios open, sketches spread like a fan of possibilities.
“This is Antoine LaFrance,” Ellory says, motioning to the man at the head of the table.
He rises to shake Dante’s hand. “What you did with my favorite stones? Breathtaking.”
“Praise from the mind behind the Olivier Brilliance setting? I’ll take it,” Dante replies, dry as ever.
We sit. The room hums with creative energy. Even the disorder—sketches, stones, tools—feels intentional.
One design stretches flat, faceted diamonds across the collarbone like geometric armor. Striking. Edgy. Another leans sculptural—chunky clusters of rough cuts meant to catch the light and disrupt symmetry. It’s bold, but maybe too heavy.
Antoine finishes walking us through his sketches, every line elegant and exacting. I glance at Ellory—her expression polite, but thoughtful. She sees it too. Beautiful as the designs are, they’re missing something.
Across the table, Dante slips a small velvet bag from his pocket. My brows lift. He pours a few rough diamonds into his hand, their surfaces uneven, light breaking jagged across cloudy edges. They look raw, alive. Untamed in a way cut stones never could be.
“These are beautiful,” Antoine says, reaching to touch one, his tone reverent.