Chapter 22 Beatrice
BEATRICE
Three months later…
“I feel enormous,” I grumble, shifting as I try to climb out of the SUV. “Since when did this get so hard?”
Matteo laughs from the driver’s seat—deep, effortless, the kind of sound that always softens something in my chest.
“I told you to wait. Stay in your seat. You’re carrying precious cargo.”
He gets out, rounds the front, and opens my door wider, offering his hand with a smug little smile.
“Mi amore,” he teases.
“If your baby wasn’t blocking the view of my feet, I’d kick you,” I mutter, glaring at him. “Why are you like this?”
He only laughs harder, and despite myself, I take his hand. I brace, inhale, and haul myself out—but instead of landing on my own two feet like a dignified adult, I fall straight into his chest. His body absorbs the impact easily, and his laugh rumbles against my cheek.
God, I’ll never get tired of that sound. He barely gives it to anyone—just Valerio, sometimes Marcello, and me. When he does, it hits me right in the heart, every time.
I lift my head, ready to throw another comment over his shoulder, when suddenly his palm covers my eyes.
“Matteo!” I squeal. “What are you doing?”
“Close your eyes or you’ll ruin the surprise.”
“A surprise? Seriously?”
“Humor me, amore.” He kisses my cheek, his hand still blocking my vision. “Just keep them shut while I put this on.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. But remember I’m eight months pregnant, Matteo. I cannot be on my feet too long. I have cankles.”
“You do not have cankles.”
“Yes, I do.” His hand drops away but my eyes stay closed. He turns me gently, guiding me. “And if you let me trip over a pebble, I swear—”
“Relax.” The blindfold slides over my eyes. “Can you see anything?”
“Matteo,” I draw out, “I’m already basically blind at this point. This is cruel and unusual punishment. Blindfolded at eight months pregnant? With the balance of a toddler? A safety hazard if I ever heard one. What kind of psychopath—”
“Trust me,” he says as his palm slips into mine. He threads our fingers together, grip firm, steady. “I’m not letting you fall. Baby should be about the size of a watermelon today.”
My heart hums at the sound of it.
“Feels like she’s the size of Mount Rushmore,” I mutter—right as a sharp kick cracks into my ribs. “Ow. That one hurt, little one.”
Matteo chuckles low against my ear, his other hand settling over my belly. “Well, you did compare her to a mountain.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see. “Can we get this surprise moving? The baby is craving Hot Cheetos again.”
“Right,” he drawls. “Just like she was craving KFC at three in the morning?”
I shrug. “Growing girl inside me. Now please, can we move? I have pregnancy ankles, Matteo.”
“Have I told you that you have the sexiest cankles I’ve ever seen in my life?”
I snort. “You need help.”
“Probably,” he agrees easily, guiding me forward with careful precision. “All right, we’re almost there. Watch each step.”
“You’re supposed to watch them for me,” I grumble.
“I got you, bella. I always do.”
The wind shifts. I catch the scent of pine, then something soft and floral under it. My feet feel steady, but my heart is thudding like I’m walking toward something big, something only he could pull off.
This man has given me more than I ever imagined. And in the last three months, he’s blindsided me in ways that still overwhelm me. He registered a fashion house in my name. Gave me a business to build after the baby comes. Always pushing me forward, telling me to aim higher, to take up space.
“Okay, a few steps up,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the back of my neck. “Good. Just like that.”
We walk a little more until we stop entirely.
“Are we here?”
“Yes,” he says. He lets go of my hand only long enough to untie the blindfold behind my head. “Open your eyes, amore.”
I do.
Sunlight floods in, and it takes me a moment to adjust. I blink hard, rub my eyes, wondering if what I’m seeing is real—because it looks impossible.
“Oh wow… this is beautiful.”
In front of me stands a contemporary estate—no, a mansion—like something out of a period drama. Pale stone walls. Terracotta roof. A wraparound terrace draped with white linen curtains drifting in the breeze. It’s less a house and more a modern-day castle.
“Welcome home, Beatrice,” Matteo murmurs against my ear.
My hand flies to my mouth. When I turn to him, he’s already watching me, searching my face for every reaction. I press my palm against his chest, but nothing comes out at first, just a rush of emotion that blurs my vision. I blink fast, fighting for composure.
“Matteo…”
He steps closer, sliding his arm around my waist. “It’s ours. A place to raise our family. Quiet. Safe. A yard for the kids. A pool for summers. A lake nearby for weekends.”
I look up at him through stinging eyes. “You did this for me?”
His gaze softens in that rare way he reserves only for me. “I did this for us. I was planning to rebuild the family estate for years, but after we married… I knew exactly who it should be for.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key.
“Would you like a tour of your new home, Mrs. Davacalli?”
I nod, unable to speak as the tears finally spill.
We walk inside hand in hand. Crossing the threshold feels like stepping into a promise, one we never said out loud but both understand.
“Wow,” is all I manage.
Warm wooden floors. Sunlit walls. The scent of lavender mixed with pine. I trail my fingers along the linen couch, then through the archway into a kitchen that looks straight out of a dream—marble counters, copper pans that catch the light like something curated just for me.
Every detail feels intentional. Things I mentioned months ago, in passing, things I never expected him to remember—he built them into the walls.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “One more thing.”
He leads me upstairs, the air shifting with each step. At the end of the hallway, he stops in front of a white wooden door painted with small scatterings of stars.
My heart stutters. I already suspect what it is… but when he opens the door, my mouth falls open in shock.
Oh, how I love this man.
The room glows in soft yellow light. A crib sits beneath the window, draped in sheer white. A rocking chair rests in the corner beside a small bookshelf already half-filled with children’s books. Watercolor art lines the walls—gentle, whimsical scenes from the animated films I grew up on.
“Matteo…” I breathe, stepping forward. “This is the baby’s nursery. You… you did all of this?”
He speaks like it’s nothing, but his voice is lower, gentler. “I didn’t want you stressing about it. You’ve been building the fashion house. This was one thing I could take off your plate.”
I had been worrying about the nursery for weeks. Feeling behind. Feeling guilty. And here he was, keeping this secret, calming me every time stress got too close—because he already had everything handled.
I turn, grab his shirt, and kiss him without thinking. Hard. Grateful. Overflowing with something dangerously close to joy.
When I pull back, my breath is unsteady. “This is too much.”
“It’s not enough,” he says simply. “Not for what you’ve survived. Not for what you’re giving me.”
My chest tightens. I rest a hand on my stomach, and right on cue the baby kicks beneath my palm. I take Matteo’s hand and place it over the movement.
I watch his expression shift—eyes softening, a slow smile curving his mouth. I squeeze his hand beneath mine. I want to stay here a little longer, inside this quiet bubble we’ve built over the last eight months.
Life has been surprisingly sweet, considering everything. Matteo has made this pregnancy easier than I ever imagined.
And just like that—my water breaks.
A warm gush hits the carpet. I stare down in disbelief, brain scrambling to catch up.
“Of course it would be today,” I mutter, stunned.
Matteo notices instantly. “What is it?”
I look up at him, waiting to panic, to scream, to cry—but instead I’m frozen, shock locking me in place.
“My water just broke.”
“Oh,” he says first. Then his eyes widen. “Oh—shit. You mean… the baby is coming?”
I nod, breath shaking. “It’s happening. The baby is… the baby is coming.”
The first contraction hits like a bolt of lightning. A raw scream tears out of me, echoing down the hallway as I fold over, hands flying to my stomach.
“I guess you’re eager to see the new house,” I grit out, talking to the little creature causing chaos inside me.
Matteo is at my side instantly, an arm around me, already calculating. “Okay. We’re leaving. Now.”
“I don’t think I can make it back to the city—”
“You don’t have to.” He’s already got his phone out, the other arm anchoring me upright.
“There’s a clinic fifteen minutes from here.
Quiet. Private. I had a maternity wing built while the house was being constructed.
I’ll fly Dr. Brown in by helicopter. She can be here in fifteen minutes. I just need you to hold on, amore.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. This man plans for every angle, every possibility. Of course he’d built an entire medical contingency around the arrival of our child.
Another contraction seizes me and I clutch his shirt, gasping. “Matteo—”
“I’ve got you.” His voice doesn’t shake. Not once. “Breathe, Beatrice. I’m not letting anything happen to you or our child.”
We manage to get out of the nursery, down the hall, but barely. I cling to the walls between contractions, hissing curses under my breath.
By the time we reach the car, I’m drenched in sweat, fighting for air. The contractions are coming hard and fast. My nails dig into Matteo’s arm as another one rips through me.
“Pull over,” I gasp. “I think—”
“No.” His tone is pure command. “You are not giving birth in this car.” One hand tightens on the wheel, the other finds mine and holds. “You wait for me. You wait until we’re somewhere safe. Somewhere I can make sure you’re taken care of.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s… not how this works!”