CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Serafina
Three weeks later
“It’s okay, Elena.” I walked past her into the kitchen and she followed closely behind me. “I want to make my own breakfast today.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Salvatore?”
“Please, I told you to call me Serafina,” I corrected her gently.
“It’s not proper,” she simply stated, folding her hands in front of her. “You’re the mistress of the house. You deserve respect.”
Ah, respect.
Such a strange, pointless word.
A laugh threatened to burst from my chest but I quickly squashed it down.
“Would you like me to get the ingredients out for you?” she asked when I started to open the cabinets.
The kitchen was spacious and modern, all gleaming stainless steel and marble countertops.
“No, I can manage.” I took out a bowl, a whisk and then grabbed the cutting board from the corner. I found the knife in one of the drawers. “You can leave. I’ll be fine here.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
I haven’t been in the kitchen before to cook anything since I moved in. But I knew I was capable of managing and I definitely didn’t need Elena hovering over my shoulders.
In fact…
“You can take the day off.”
She blinked, confused. “Sorry?”
“You can take the day off,” I repeated calmly. “I can manage.”
“But—”
“I doubt Adrian would mind,” I said before she could finish the sentence. “So please, you and Edmund both.”
“Do you not want us in the main house?”
I smiled softly. “That’s right. I would like to be alone, please. When my husband arrives, I’ll be there to greet him myself. And I’ll take care of dinner, too.” Her expression shifted to concern and I reached out to pat her on the shoulders. “Please, rest assured. We’ll be perfectly fine.”
Elena hesitated for another moment before nodding. “As you wish, Mrs. Salvatore. I’ll let my father know. If you need anything—“
“I won’t,” I assured her, already turning back to the cabinets. “Thank you, Elena.”
The sound of her footsteps faded as I gathered what I needed. Eggs, cheese, mushrooms, and a tomato. I was in the mood for an omelette today.
I also took some strawberries from the fridge and put them in a bowl. A quick healthy snack while I cooked.
The knife felt solid in my hand as I chopped, the rhythm of the blade against the cutting board strangely soothing. I’d been raised to know my way around a kitchen, though it had been years since I’d cooked for myself. In my father’s house, such tasks were beneath me.
The skillet hissed as I poured the beaten eggs into it.
I took a bit of my strawberry, watching as they began to set around the edges, the kitchen filling with the scent of butter and herbs.
It was almost peaceful, this simple act of creation.
For a moment, I could pretend I was just a woman making breakfast, not a puppet caught between two warring brothers.
I was just sliding the finished omelette onto a plate when I heard his voice behind me.
“It smells delicious.”
I didn’t jump. Didn’t startle. I’d been expecting him.
“Matteo.” I turned, plate in hand, and offered him a small smile. “You’re early.”
He stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that made his eyes seem even more piercing. His dark hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place. The very picture of the man I was supposed to have married. Calm and composed.
So unlike his younger brother.
“You didn’t respond to my text,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.
“I was busy.” I gestured with my fork. “Would you like some breakfast? I can make another.”
His eyes lit with surprise. “You’d cook for me?”
“Why not? We’re family now, aren’t we?” I set my plate down and moved back to the stove. “Take a seat.”
Matteo settled onto one of the barstools at the island, watching as I cracked more eggs into the bowl. I could feel his gaze on me, heavy with something, unsaid words that I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You seem different,” he said after a moment. “More... settled.”
I whisked the eggs with more force than necessary. “I’ve spent several weeks in this house now, it’s time I do get settled. I have to spend the rest of my life here.”
He was quiet for a second, his gaze boring into my back before he asked, “How is my brother treating you?”
The question hung in the air between us. I added the filling to the skillet, watching the eggs bubble around the edges.
“Good,” I finally said, keeping my voice neutral.
“Is that so?” Matteo’s tone suggested he didn’t believe me.
They say hate is an obsession.
It was true in my case.
I fed the fury that resided inside me until it learned to wear the face of indifference. A silent, destructive hate that no one could see simmering from under my flesh.
I was Serafina Salvatore.
Calm. Elegant. Composed.
You see, hate was dangerous because it still kept the other person close to your heart, every beat reminding you of them even when you were desperate to forget them.
You just simply couldn’t.
But the dreadful fact was that hate wasn’t a hollow emptiness.
No, too much of it would eventually destroy you, the type of annihilation that was inevitable.
And I was willing to be destroyed.
I counted the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds… until my destruction.
Our destruction.
It was destined, a poisonous fate neither of us could escape.
We were bound by it.
By law and godly powers.
So, I bidded my time.
And played the perfect wife of Adrian Salvatore.
Calm. Composed. Elegant.
I attended charities, I visited the galleries, I hosted dinners at the Salvatore estate, I sat down next to Adrian, prim and proper. Always smiling. Laughing softly when expected, speaking when I was spoken to… and of course, publicly praised my husband to anyone who would listen.
The perfect wife.
The perfect husband.
The perfect marriage.
The perfect lie.
At first, Adrian was surprised.
He was suspicious.
Of course, he was.
He released his three beasts on me, threatened my life but here I was, playing house. We even shared a few meals together, just the two of us, sitting in the silence of our dining room, the only sound echoing against the walls were those of our fancy cutleries.
I didn’t argue, I didn’t insult, I didn’t seek revenge.
Adrian expected more of me.
He wanted my fire.
But I gave him none.
I waited… and waited…
For the perfect moment.
“I believe my husband and I have reached an understanding.” I flipped the omelette with practiced ease and then slid it onto a second plate before setting it in front of Matteo.
He frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t let your guard down, Serafina. Adrian isn’t what he seems.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Few people are.” I grabbed my fork to take a bite of my own eggs, before gesturing toward his plate. “Please, enjoy.”
Matteo didn’t have to be told twice. He took a bite, humming appreciatively. “Wow. This is excellent. How did you know how to cook?”
“My mother taught me.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I rarely spoke of my mother to anyone.
“She must have been proud.”
“Thank you.” I sat across from him. The silence stretched between us, comfortable yet charged with unspoken words.
“Your arm,” Matteo said suddenly, reaching across to touch the vertical scar across my forearm. “How did you get that?”
His fingers were gentle, so unlike Adrian’s rough touch.
“Just a small…incident. Nothing to worry about.”
Matteo reached up, his fingers lingering over the tiny, almost invisible scar on the bridge of my nose. Years have almost faded the scar, but it was still there, noticeable to those who paid attention.
I didn’t pull away from this touch, though I felt nothing at the contact. No spark, no connection. Just the clinical observation that his hands were surprisingly softer than his brother’s.
His hand lingered there a moment too long before falling away. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He returned to his eggs, finishing them quickly. “Adrian’s hatred for me has made you a target. He’s trying to hurt you because of me.”
His words hung between as I didn’t respond.
I wasn’t sure what to say.
Adrian was my husband… and as his perfect wife, I wasn’t supposed to speak ill of him to others.
I stood and gathered our empty plates, carrying them to the sink. The warm water washed away the remnants of our meal, just as I wished I could wash away the past several weeks.
But everything had been tainted. With lies. Vengeance. Resentment. Wrath.
There was no washing this stain away.
It was our life now.
I reached for the bowl, taking another strawberry. It was my fifth, and I couldn’t get enough of them. The juices, both tangy and sweet, coating my tongue.
“You don’t deserve this,” Matteo said, appearing behind me. His hand came to rest on my lower back, the touch surprising me. “You deserve better.”
I turned to face him, and he crowded into my space, his body too close, making his intentions clear.
I took a step back, hitting the edge of the counter. “I can take care of myself, thank you for your concern.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Matteo insisted, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“And you do?” The words came out sharper than I intended. Adrian and Matteo were one and the same, from the same blood, cut from the same thread.
Pain flashed across his features. “You were supposed to be mine.”
“Matteo…” My words trailed off when he took my hand, bringing it up to his chest, placing it over his beating heart.
The steady thud beneath my palm was strong, insistent. “I was willing to give you my heart,” he said, his eyes darkening. “But then I found you in my brother’s bed.”
“How cozy.”
The voice cut through the kitchen like a blade.
I looked over Matteo’s shoulders and found my husband leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed casually.
His expression was deceptively calm, but his eyes, those cold blue eyes, burned with something darker—a quiet, lurking menace.
“I wasn’t expecting to see my wife and brother together in my kitchen this morning,” he drawled, pushing off from the wall.