Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Rachel
Sunday afternoon, I'd just gotten back from Sea Breeze Diner. The second I reached my apartment door, there he was. Matteo.
He stood by the entrance, silver hair slightly windswept, his expression colder than the hallway walls. That thing he did—lowering the temperature of an entire building without saying a word—was a gift only he possessed.
My feet stopped. Matteo heard the movement, turned, and strode toward me.
"You're finally back."
"This is my place. Me coming home seems pretty reasonable, doesn't it?"
"Why didn't you open the door last night? Why didn't you answer my calls?"
I slid the key into the lock without looking at him. "Didn't hear them."
"Don't bullshit me with that excuse."
"I didn't want to see you."
Silence fell. I pushed the door open, about to step inside when his hand clamped around my wrist.
"Rachel."
"Let go."
He didn't.
"You won't let me touch you," Matteo said, voice like ice, "but you let Charles hold you? Make you laugh?"
"Do I need to file a formal request to laugh? In triplicate, carbon copy to George?"
His eyes darkened. "Don't use that tone with me."
"Then don't interrogate me like I'm a suspect."
He stepped forward, backing me against the doorframe. "You know damn well what Charles is thinking."
"I do." I stared at him. "But at least he told me about your engagement instead of leaving me in the dark like a fucking fool."
"You're defending him?"
"I'm stating facts."
"You left me standing on the street. Wouldn't even listen."
"What did you want me to listen to?" I laughed bitterly. "Your explanation that you and Samantha are just rumors? Or that the engagement is some joke the family elders toss around at tea time?"
Matteo's face went darker. "That's all bullshit. I turned them down. I'm not marrying Samantha."
"Really? Because I've heard it more than once. Everyone acts like they got the same script—Matteo Vitale and Samantha Ashford will end up together eventually."
"They don't know the truth."
"Do I?"
Matteo looked at me, something flickering in his eyes.
I kept going. "You never explain anything.
You just feed me sweet talk. 'Don't think about it,' 'it doesn't matter,' 'you're mine.
' Sounds great. Very movie-line. But real life isn't a movie, Matteo.
In real life, a twenty-one-year-old ordinary girl hears that and feels like a goddamn joke. "
His jaw tightened. "You're not a joke."
"Then what am I?"
He didn't answer right away. That pathetic little hope in my chest got crushed to dust in those few seconds of silence.
"Just go."
"Rachel—"
"I said go." I turned to look at him. "I'm tired. I don't want to fight with you or discuss your future wife's name. If you need help with the wedding seating chart, let me know."
His expression went completely cold. For a few seconds, I thought he'd do what he used to—throw me over his shoulder, drag me inside, shut the door, and kiss every sharp word out of my mouth. But he didn't. He just stared at me, then released my wrist and stepped back.
"Fine."
One word. Worse than any fight. He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing down the hall. I stood in the doorway until he disappeared completely, then went inside like my bones had been pulled out and shut the door.
I dropped the takeout bag on the table and sank into the couch. The air still held traces of his scent—cold, woodsy. Ridiculous. I was angry enough to rip the throw pillows to shreds, but that lingering smell still made my chest ache.
"Great job, Rachel," I told myself. "You just kicked out the man you're in love with. What's next? Get drunk at a bar?"
No one answered. Just the hum of the refrigerator keeping me company.
The next day was the company's annual reception. All department heads, core assistants, and project leads had to attend. I stared at the screen—should I fake a fever? Or break a not-too-important toe? The pinky toe seemed viable. It had no real career ambitions besides hitting table legs anyway.
My gaze drifted to the closet—that wine-red floor-length dress still hung there. Matteo had it sent over a week ago. Satin, thin straps, beautiful waistline, slit up the side to mid-thigh.
I reached out to touch the hem, then quickly pulled back. It was proof I'd once believed Matteo actually cared about me.
My phone rang. Amy.
"Rachel! Are you ready?"
"I'm considering not going."
"No." Her tone was final. "You have to go. Your name's on the core assistant list. Cynthia confirmed it. If you don't show up, tomorrow the office gossip will say you're pregnant with Charles's baby, locked up by Matteo, or joined some cult."
"The last one sounds pretty peaceful."
"Cut it out. Three o'clock. I'm picking you up. We're getting our hair done."
"Amy, I really don't feel up to it."
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"I know things have been rough. Still no word about Leona, and the company's a mess.
But listen—sometimes, when you least want to show up, that's when you need to look your best. Not to please anyone.
To tell everyone—you're still standing."
Amy sometimes sounded like a fortune cookie, but she was usually right.
"Okay." I sighed. "Three o'clock."
"Perfect. And wear that wine-red dress."
"How do you know about that?"
"Please. When it arrived, the whole building saw it."
I put my hand over my face.
At three, Amy dragged me into a salon she knew. The stylist was a man who talked as fast as an auctioneer. He circled me twice, clapped his hands, and said, "Gorgeous. Great bone structure, killer eyes. Tonight we're doing that 'I don't need men but men will jump off bridges for me' look."
"Can we do an 'I just want to go home and sleep' look?"
He looked at me in the mirror. "Honey, that's called a weekend, not a gala."
Halfway through styling, Amy leaned in close, lowering her voice.
"There's something I don't know if I should tell you."
"Usually when you start like that, what follows isn't good news."
"I heard from someone in admin that tonight's guest list... Samantha's on it."
The eyebrow pencil in my hand stopped. "Oh."
Amy watched me carefully. "Are you okay?"
"Of course." I set down the pencil. "She's the assistant VP of administration. It's normal for her to attend."
"Rachel."
"I'm fine."
That phrase had been coming out of my mouth at an alarming frequency lately. Amy didn't press, just picked out a small ruby hairpin and clipped it to the side of my low bun.
"Tonight you'll be so stunning they'll shut up."
"Shutting up's unlikely." I looked at myself in the mirror. "But making them choke a little would be nice."
When we arrived at the venue, the hall was already packed with guests. The moment I stepped inside, my feet stopped.
Matteo stood at the center. He wore a black tuxedo, bow tie perfectly straight, silver hair catching the light and making him look even more devastating than usual.
Samantha had her arm through his. She wore a silver-white gown, platinum blonde hair falling over her shoulders, heels clicking with every proud, perfect step. She smiled brilliantly, introducing Matteo to several guests, her posture natural. Maybe she was born to stand there.
Amy followed my gaze and cursed under her breath. "Fuck."
"Don't." I forced a smile. "No swearing tonight. Your lipstick's expensive. Save it."
"You're joking right now?"
"If I don't joke, I'll scream." I took a breath, forcing down the sourness in my chest.
I followed the assistant team to our assigned seats. A few colleagues were already there, and their eyes were very busy when they saw me arrive.
"She actually came tonight."
"Is that the dress the boss sent her?"
"Keep it down."
The most hypocritical words in the English language.
I sat down, grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server's tray, and downed most of it. The bubbles burned my throat. I nearly choked, my eyes instantly watering.
Amy quickly handed me a napkin. "Slow down, Rachel. This isn't a college frat party."
When I looked up, Matteo's gaze had landed on me. His eyes found me across the crowd. Just for a second. Maybe less. Before I could read what was there, Samantha smiled and reached up to adjust his bow tie, smoothly pulling his attention back to the guest in front of them.
Matteo didn't pull away. At least, that's what I saw. I set down my glass and told myself to stop looking. Then I picked up a second glass. Three drinks in, the band started playing a waltz. Several couples glided onto the dance floor, skirts spinning like expensive flowers.
I'd planned to hide in a corner until it was over, go home, wash off my makeup, take a shower, and format this entire evening from my memory. But apparently God thought my night wasn't entertaining enough.
"Rachel."
Charles's voice came from behind me. I turned to see him standing there in a light-colored suit, brown curls styled, gold cross pinned to his lapel. He extended his hand with the posture of a proper gentleman.
"Would you honor me with a dance?"
"Charles, I don't—"
Before I could finish, my gaze traveled past his shoulder.
Samantha stood in front of Matteo, her fingertips brushing the edge of his bow tie.
She tilted her head back to speak, red lips curved in a smile, her silver-white gown blinding under the lights like fresh snow.
Matteo looked down at her, his face unreadable, but he didn't push her away either.
Perfect. If his "necessary obligations" could look like an engagement photo shoot, then one dance wasn't a crime. I placed my hand in Charles's palm.
"One dance."
Charles's smile deepened. "I promise to be a good partner."
"You better be," I said. "I'm wearing heels. Stepping on someone will hurt."
He laughed softly and led me onto the floor. At first, his hand stayed relatively proper, resting on the upper part of my waist. But as we spun, his palm gradually drifted lower, and his body pressed closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with champagne.
I frowned. "Charles."