Seventeen
Ellory
M atteo goes still. Tension rolls off him in a wave.
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Looks like Willow’s actually on time today.”
My stomach knots. “Should I go?”
“Absolutely not.” His eyes snap to mine, hard and sure. “I want—no, I need—a witness to the disaster that’s about to happen.”
The words make my chest cave in a little. Disaster. He’s already bracing for impact.
The elevator pings, the sound too loud in the silence that follows.
“Amelia?” A voice pierces the air, shrill and demanding.
I glance at Matteo. His only answer is a one-shoulder shrug, resigned, like this is routine.
“We’re in here,” he calls back, voice even but tight.
She strides in like she owns the place. Skin-tight black dress, stilettos sharp enough to draw blood, and a glare that could sour milk.
And in a single breath, I understand her.
She’s not here to mother. She’s here to control—him, this house, the narrative she tells herself.
Amelia is just the excuse. Matteo is the prize.
Her eyes land on me. She freezes.
“What is she doing here?”
“We’re enjoying our Sunday morning,” Matteo says smoothly, crossing the space to stand beside me, his presence protective, deliberate. “Coffee? There might be a few pancakes left.”
She doesn’t even look at him. Her focus narrows on Amelia, arm outstretched like she’s claiming property. But Amelia squeals and darts away, delighted, thinking it’s another round of chase.
I take a step forward, instinctively. “She loves—”
Willow cuts me off with a sharp slice of her hand through the air. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
The sting is instant, hot and humiliating. My lips press shut, my pride smarting. Fine. If silence is what she wants, she’ll get it.
“Amelia, come to Mommy!” she snaps, voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
Amelia freezes, startled. Her big eyes dart to Matteo, and when he takes a step toward her, the dam breaks. She bursts into tears, arms stretched desperately for him, like he’s the only safe place left in the room.
He scoops her up instantly, tucking her close. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. She thought you wanted to play.” His voice is soft, protective, a sharp contrast to Willow’s shrill demand. Then he turns to her, steel slipping into his tone. “Please don’t yell at her.”
“You’re turning my daughter against me,” Willow snaps, her voice trembling, but it isn’t grief. It’s accusation, blame, venom dressed up as fragility.
“She doesn’t remember you,” Matteo says flatly, bouncing Amelia gently in his arms. His matter-of-fact tone slices through the tension like truth he refuses to dress up.
Willow throws herself onto the couch with all the grace of a sulky teenager. “That’s ridiculous. You’re making that up.”
“She’d forget me too if I vanished even for a week,” Matteo murmurs, low and weary, kissing Amelia’s hair, as if reminding himself he won’t vanish from his daughter’s life. Not like that.
It takes a few minutes for Amelia’s hiccupping sobs to ease, but eventually, she allows Willow to perch nearby. Still, the peace doesn’t last. She’s newly mobile, restless energy bubbling over, and the moment her feet hit the floor, she toddles off, chasing some unseen adventure.
I retreat to the kitchen, trying to disappear into the mundane. Plates. Syrup-smeared forks. Soap and water. Anything to give them space. But this is an open-concept condo. There’s no wall between me and the battlefield. I’m still a part of the show whether I want to be or not.
From the corner of my eye, I see Willow lean in, her voice dripping with sugar so artificial it makes my teeth ache. Matteo doesn’t bite. He just keeps steady, unmoved.
“Who is she, and why is she here?” Willow finally demands.
“She’s a friend,” Matteo says easily, but I catch the flick of his eyes toward me, acknowledging me, grounding me. “And she’s here because I invited her.”
“Do you even know anything about her?”
“I do. A lot. And more importantly, Amelia adores her.”
The jab lands in my chest like a warm pulse, even as the tension knots tighter.
“Does she live here?” Willow pushes.
I go still, water running over my hands, the plate forgotten. My breath catches.
“No,” Matteo answers firmly. “She has her own place.”
“And beyond what she’s told you, have you done a background check?”
My head jerks up, soap stinging my hands. What?
Matteo blinks, stunned into stillness. “I’m sorry, what?”
“If you’re going to dress her up and pay her rent, shouldn’t you know who she really is?”
The laugh rips out of me before I can stop it—sharp, bitter, edged. So that’s the story she’s weaving. Gold digger. Kept woman.
“I don’t need to run a background check,” Matteo replies coolly, ice settling in his voice.
“Well, until you do, I don’t want her around our daughter.”
Something in him snaps. His gaze hardens, sharp as glass. “Shouldn’t that apply to your friends, too?”
“My friends aren’t after your money,” Willow shoots back.
“And neither is she.” His words land heavy, final. And for the first time, I don’t just hear his defense. I feel it, right down to the marrow.
“Then who bought the three-carat diamond studs in her ears?”
I step in, steady but calm. “I did. And I bought my house with my own money too.”
Willow whirls on me, eyes blazing. “Really? Lying on your back pays that well?”
The insult slices deep, but I don’t let it show. That’s what she wants—a flinch, a crack. I won’t hand her the satisfaction.
Matteo bursts out laughing, sharp and disbelieving. The absurdity of it shakes something loose in me, and I laugh too—quick, sharp, but real. I’m not rising to her bait.
“You’re not famous,” she spits, desperate to claw back ground.
“No,” I reply evenly, meeting her gaze without blinking. “I’m not.”
Matteo’s laughter fades, his voice flattening into something harder. “Willow, what do you actually want?”
Finally. The question that matters.
She smooths her dress like armor, chin tilting, as if the gesture could transform her into someone fragile. “I want to be part of Amelia’s life. I’m better now. I want to be her mom again.”
Matteo’s voice softens, but there’s an edge under the velvet. “You left her with barely a note and less than a day’s worth of formula. You left Amelia with a doorman. And then you ghosted your own child.”
“I couldn’t do it,” she whispers. “It hurt too much. My friend Kurt wrote the note.”
And just like that, the pieces shift into place. The tenderness in that letter, the ache woven into every line. It had never been hers. Of course.
But still. Maybe she’s telling the truth now. Maybe she’s trying.
“I invited you out here,” Matteo says, still measured, still careful. “You’re staying at the Fairmont. You are her mother, and I want you in her life.”
Willow’s hand snaps out, pointing at me like a blade. “Then she needs to go.”
I set my coffee down, keeping my tone light. “That’s not a problem. I’ve got errands anyway.”
Matteo raises his hand, palm steady, not even looking at me. “Willow, she’s my guest. You don’t get to make demands.”
“I’m Amelia’s mother. I absolutely get to make demands. And until I see a full background check, she doesn’t come near Amelia.” Her chin lifts, triumphant. “Also, I want you to fire Trixie.”
Matteo’s jaw flexes, the muscle ticking. He’s holding himself together by threads.
“Why?” he asks, voice low. “Amelia loves her.”
“She gives me attitude.”
“She’s my employee,” Matteo says, his tone sharpening like a blade being honed. “I’m not firing her. And when you leave the day after tomorrow, I’ll need her here. I have work.”
Willow doesn’t flinch. She goes for the nuclear option instead. “I’ll move in tomorrow. I’ll stay for good.”
Matteo stiffens. Barely, but I see it.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then forces the words out. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you want to stay in San Francisco, great. I’m open to a custody agreement. But you’ll need an apartment. And a job.”
Her jaw drops like he slapped her. “You’d keep my daughter from me?”
“No,” he says evenly, measured, controlled. “You’ll see her. But not like this. Not without structure. Not by moving into my home.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes flashing, rage sharp enough to blister. “Are you behind this?”
I shake my head, steady even as her accusation burns. “This is between you and Matteo.”
Amelia starts to fuss, rubbing her tiny fists into her eyes, her whimper soft but insistent. She’s done—overstimulated, exhausted. But Willow doesn’t even glance at her.
I look at Matteo. He’s doing his best to hold steady, but this whole scene is spiraling fast. And I know it. My presence isn’t helping.
“I think I’ll head out,” I say gently, careful not to add fuel. “Amelia needs her nap. And I’ve got things to do.”
I reach for my bag, my chest tight, torn between wanting to protect him and Amelia and knowing that sometimes stepping back is the only way to shield them.
Matteo stands immediately, Amelia wobbling after me on chubby legs. “You don’t have to go,” he says softly, his voice a tether I almost grab onto.
“I think I do,” I reply, even though every part of me is screaming to stay. “Me being here is making things worse. Put her down for her nap. Talk to Willow. Try to work this out—before it gets even messier.”
His eyes close for a beat, shoulders tense like he’s holding back everything he wants to say. When he opens them again, he nods, resigned. “When can I see you?”
“I’ll see you at the airport in the morning,” I promise, forcing steadiness into my voice as I move toward the elevator. “We’ll figure out what’s next.”
At the doors, I pause. Leaning in, I press a soft kiss to his cheek, breathing him in like it might have to last me. Then I wave to Amelia. Her sleepy smile squeezes something tender in my chest, a bittersweet ache.