Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alessia
The knock comes mid-morning, soft and apologetic like whoever's on the other side doesn't really want to disturb me. I expect the same women from yesterday but instead, two strangers enter.
"Delivery from Signor Romano," the older woman says. Her voice is polite, professional, empty of warmth. She doesn't look at me directly—her gaze skitters past my shoulder, lands somewhere near the window, anywhere but my face and this bothers me.
My stomach clenches. "Where are the other women?"
Her mouth compresses into a thin line.
"They no longer work here, signora."
I grip the back of the sofa, and guilt twists sharp in my chest because I know exactly what happened—they lost their jobs because I stole those keys, and now two women who were just doing their jobs are paying for my choices.
I should have known there would be consequences, should have realized Matteo would find out eventually and someone would take the blame. "I see." The words scrape out, catching on guilt that tastes like copper.
They finish their work in silence. No small talk, just efficiency and careful distance. They know what happened to the others. They don't want to be next in line. I get it, I really do.
When they leave, I sink onto the sofa and press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids.
The shopping bags sit untouched for several minutes while I try to breathe through the nausea churning in my gut. Finally, I force myself to go over to the bags.
Silk scarves in jewel tones. Cashmere sweaters soft enough to melt between my fingers. Shoes that probably cost more than those maids made in a month.
I should be grateful, probably. Should appreciate that Matteo's providing for me.
But all I feel is sick.
I move toward the bags slowly, sorting through tissue paper and designer labels with hands that still haven't stopped shaking. A dress the color of midnight. Lingerie so delicate it's nearly transparent. More things I don't need and didn't ask for.
And then I see it.
A pearl. Catching the light wrong, gleaming white against dark fabric.
My wedding earring.
My hand freezes midreach. That's not possible. These deliveries came from boutiques.
Not from the Moretti house, let alone from my old room, my vanity.
My pulse hammers in my wrists as I lift the pearl with trembling fingers.
The weight is exactly as I remember—heavy with memory, cold against my palm.
I know this earring the way I know my own face.
Lorenzo gave them to me on our wedding day, pressed the box into my hands with that smile that never reached his eyes.
"Something borrowed from my mother," he'd said. "She wore them on her wedding day too. Now they're yours."
What he meant was: Now you belong to us. Now you're Moretti property, marked and claimed.
I'd worn them exactly once. Taken them off the moment we reached the hotel room and never touched them again until now.
How did they get here? Who went to the Moretti house, into my old room, and took these from my jewelry box? And more importantly—why?
Beneath the earring, half-hidden in tissue paper, there is a white envelope.
My name is written across the front in a looping script I don't recognize.
I shouldn’t open it. Whatever's inside, it's nothing good. I must walk away.
But my fingers are already tearing the seal before my brain finishes forming the thought.
The paper inside is heavy, expensive. The kind of stationery wealthy people use when they want their words to carry weight. I unfold it with hands that shake so badly the edges rattle.
Interesting that you claim to be pregnant when you've never even slept with your husband. Some secrets are harder to keep than others. We should talk soon. — A friend
The note slips from my fingers.
I watch it fall, spinning in slow motion, white against dark carpet. My vision tunnels. The edges of the room go gray, then black, shrinking to just that paper on the floor with its neat script and devastating truth.
Someone knows.
My lungs won't expand. I try to breathe—once, twice—but air won't come. It's like being underwater, pressure building in my chest until I think my ribs might crack from it. The copper taste of fear floods my mouth, making saliva pool under my tongue.
How? How could anyone know? I never told—I didn't—
The room spins. I reach for the sofa back, miss by inches, my knees buckling. My hip hits the coffee table edge and pain flares sharp enough to cut through panic for a heartbeat. I grip the table with both hands, knuckles going white, using the hurt to anchor me.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But I can't. I can't force air past the constriction in my throat, can't make my lungs work properly. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My heart slams so hard against my ribs I'm distantly surprised it doesn't just burst through bone and flesh.
Someone knows about Lorenzo. About our marriage. About the fact that we never—that he never—
If this gets back to the Morettis, I'm dead—Don Emilio will know I've been lying about carrying his grandchild, that there's no heir to protect, no reason to keep me alive.
The door opens.
I hear it through the roaring in my ears, the click of the latch and whisper of hinges, but I can't look up. Can't do anything except kneel gripping the coffee table while my vision narrows to pinpoints and my body forgets how to perform basic functions like breathing.
I hear footsteps cross the room quickly, and then Matteo's hands are on my shoulders, firm and grounding.
"Alessia." His voice cuts through the panic, sharp and commanding. "Look at me."
I can't. My chest is too tight, my vision swimming with black spots.
"Breathe." His hands move to cup my face, forcing my head up until I'm staring into his eyes. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it now."
The command in his voice cuts through the panic enough that I manage one shaky breath, then another. He keeps his hands on my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, anchoring me in the moment.
"That's it. Keep breathing. You're safe." He guides me to the sofa, keeping one hand on my back as I sink onto the cushions. "Slower. Match my breathing."
I watch his chest rise and fall, trying to sync my ragged gasps to his steady rhythm. Gradually, the black spots recede and my lungs remember how to work properly. The panic doesn't disappear completely, but it loosens its grip enough that I can think again.
"Better?" he asks, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes my throat tighten for entirely different reasons.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
Only then does he glance at the floor, at the note lying face-up on the carpet. He releases me and crosses the room in three strides, scooping it up with one fluid motion. I watch through blurred vision as his eyes scan the text, watch his expression shift from concern to something cold and deadly.
When he looks at me again, his eyes have gone winter-hard.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know." The words come out as a whisper, barely audible even to my own ears. "I don't know how they could know, I never told anyone—"
"Know what, exactly?" He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "What is it they think they know about your marriage?"
My calves hit the sofa and I stumble back, trapped. He closes the distance between us until I can feel heat radiating off him. I smell his cologne. He is angry, his control barely leashed.
"It's nothing." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "Just someone trying to cause trouble."
"Don't lie to me." Each word drops like a stone into still water, sending ripples through whatever fragile peace we'd built.
The truth claws up my throat. I could keep lying. Should keep lying. Lying has kept me alive this long, kept me breathing through forty-five days of performance art while I figured out my next move.
But what's the point? Someone else knows.
"Lorenzo and I..." My voice cracks. I shouldn’t say it. But the words keep coming like blood from a wound I can't stanch. "We never..."
I can't finish. Can't force the confession past my lips even though it's sitting right there, waiting to destroy whatever fragile thing exists between us.
Matteo's jaw locks. I watch a muscle jump beneath his skin, watch his hands curl into fists at his sides before he forces them open again.
"Never what?" His voice has gone quieter now, which is somehow worse than if he'd shouted.
My hands twist together, nails digging into my own palms hard enough to leave crescents. "We never consummated our marriage."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Matteo goes completely still. Not the stillness of relaxation but of a predator deciding whether to strike. Every muscle locked, breath held, eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"You did not sleep with your husband?" The words come out strange, like he's tasting them and can't quite believe the flavor.
I shake my head. Can't manage words, can only give him that small denial while shame burns hot up my neck and into my cheeks.
"He tried. The first night, and a few times after.
" The confession spills out now that I've started, words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape.
"But I fought him, and when he realized I wouldn't just lie there and take it, he.
.." I gesture helplessly at my ribs, at the scars hidden beneath silk and lies.
"He found other ways to hurt me. But he never actually succeeded in—"
"You're telling me," Matteo says, his voice growing rougher with each word, dropping into registers that make something low in my belly tighten, "that you're still..."
He trails off. Can't finish the sentence, or won't. But we both know what word he's not saying.
"A virgin." I force myself to say it clearly, to own the admission even though it feels like stepping off a cliff into open air. "Yes."