Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kristen
The smell of burnt coffee hits me before I even open my eyes.
Mom's here early. That's never good.
I drag myself out of bed, checking on Lily still curled around Sir Floppington the Third in her toddler bed. Her chest rises and falls in that perfect rhythm only sleeping children have. I press a kiss to her forehead and slip out of our shared bed. I put on my clothes and step out of the bedroom.
Mom stands at my kitchen counter, pouring coffee into my one good mug—the one without chips. She's dressed for church even though it's Tuesday. Pearls. Pressed blouse. Judgment radiating off her like cheap perfume.
"Morning," I say, moving past her to check the time.
"I spoke to Jack last night."
My hand freezes on the cabinet door. Of course you did.
"He's worried about you, Kristen." Mom sets the coffee pot down with a careful click. "He said he wants to help. He offered to loan you money until you get back on your feet."
A laugh escapes me.
"He wants to loan me money." I repeat the words slowly, testing them on my tongue like spoiled milk. "That's what he told you."
"He's trying, sweetheart. I know things ended badly, but he's still Lily's father. He still cares about—"
"Stop."
The word comes out harder than I intend. Mom's mouth snaps shut, her eyes widening like I've slapped her.
I grip the edge of the counter. My knuckles hurt. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm aware that Lily could wake up any second, that these walls are paper-thin, that the neighbors can probably hear us breathing.
But I'm so tired.
Years of watching my mother take his side make me so tired. Hundreds of conversations where I smiled and nodded and let her believe whatever fairy tale Jack spun because fighting felt pointless.
"Jack took out that loan," I say quietly. "For Lily's surgery."
"I know, honey. He explained that you both—"
"He put it in my name." I turn to face her.
"Twenty thousand dollars. In my name. And I'm the only one putting money there because he claims that he doesn't have much left.
I'm paying for it and he is not. In his world I'm the one who needs to pay a loan that it's taken under my name even though it was for OUR daughter. "
Mom's face goes pale. "That's not—Jack wouldn't—"
"I've been paying fifteen hundred dollars a month." My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. "That's why I worked three jobs. That's why I never had money for groceries. That's why Lily and I eat pasta four nights a week and I can't afford to fix the toaster that burns everything."
"Kristen—"
"And now he's offering to loan me money? With what? The money he somehow has?"
Mom sets down her coffee. Her hands are shaking. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have believed me?"
Silence.
The question hangs between us like smoke. Mom's eyes dart away, anywhere but my face.
That's what I thought.
"I'm not asking you to take my side." My voice comes out flat. Empty. "I stopped expecting that a long time ago. But I'm done defending myself to you. I'm done watching you choose him over your own daughter."
"I never chose—"
"You did." I sling my bag over my shoulder. "Every time you told me to give him another chance. Every time you said I was being dramatic. Every time you looked at me like I was the problem."
I check the clock. Dante must have arrived.
"I have to go." I move toward Lily's room to kiss her goodbye. "Lock up when I leave."
"Kristen, wait." Mom's voice breaks. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't—"
"I know you didn't." I pause at the doorway. "That's the whole point, Mom. You never wanted to know."
I press my lips to Lily's warm cheek, breathing in her little-girl smell.
"Mommy loves you," I whisper.
She doesn't stir.
When I walk back through the kitchen, Mom hasn't moved. Her mascara has started to run, and for one horrible moment, I almost feel guilty.
Almost.
I grab my jacket and leave.
The door clicks shut behind me.
Nico's bedroom door stands slightly ajar.
I knock twice anyway. Wait. Count to ten in my head like Giulia told me.
Nothing.
Good. Empty room. Easy task. In and out.
I push the door open and step inside, immediately hit by the scent of him. I don't know which specific cologne he's wearing and my nose has no business memorising his smell like it's important information.
The room is... not what I expected.
Minimal. Almost severe. A massive bed dominates one wall, perfectly made.
No decorative pillows. No throw blankets.
No warmth. Dark wood nightstands flank each side, one holding a single lamp and nothing else.
The other has a phone charger and what looks like a worn paperback, spine cracked from use.
I don't let myself look at the title.
Massive windows span the far wall, heavy blackout curtains pulled back to let in light. A desk sits in the corner. Papers stacked in neat piles, laptop closed, three monitors dark. Everything has a place. Everything is controlled.
Of course his room looks like this. The man probably alphabetizes his socks.
I snort at my own joke, then immediately feel guilty.
The walk-in closet is my destination. Giulia's instructions were specific: Nico wants his clothes organized by color. The new laundry girl mixes things up. Check it weekly.
Simple enough.
I flip the closet light switch and step into a space bigger than Lily's bedroom. Suits line one side. Blacks, navies, all hanging with an inch of space between each hanger. The other side holds shirts, sweaters, casual wear I've never actually seen him in. Does Nico Sartori own jeans?
Apparently yes. Dark wash, folded on a shelf like they've never been worn.
I start at the left, checking that black suits are together, navy suits separate. My fingers brush fabric that probably costs more than my car. Had cost more than my car, back when I owned one.
A black sweater has migrated into the navy section.
There you are, troublemaker.
I relocate it, smoothing the cashmere before hanging it properly. The softness of it makes me think about his hands. Always moving, always tapping. Would they feel like this? Soft underneath the rough?
Stop.
I yank my hand back like the sweater burned me.
This is a job. He's my employer. He hired me out of pity or obligation or whatever rich people feel when someone saves their life. Gratitude that comes with a price tag. A transaction, nothing more.
But I keep thinking about him.
The way he knelt down to meet Lily at her level that first night. How his voice dropped when he said you don't have a choice and somehow it didn't scare me the way Jack's commands used to. The look on his face when he caught me singing.
I've been trying to read him.
Pathetic.
The thing is, I've only ever been with Jack. My entire adult life has been shaped by one man who told me daily that I was lucky he wanted me. That no one else would. That I should be grateful for his attention because I certainly didn't deserve it.
I believed him.
So now, standing in another man's closet and noticing that he smells good? That his voice does something to my chest when he's being commanding?
It feels illegal.
Like I'm breaking some rule I didn't know existed.
You're allowed to find men attractive, I tell myself, moving a black shirt that's somehow ended up with the whites. You're separated. Almost divorced. Free.
But am I?
Jack still texts. Still calls. Still has my mother convinced I'm the villain in our story. The debt follows me everywhere. His name is on Lily's birth certificate, which means he has rights, which means I'm never truly free of him.
And Nico Sartori is my boss.
My very rich, very intimidating, very out-of-my-league boss who could have any woman in Chicago with a snap of his fingers. Women who know which fork to use at dinner. Women who haven't been broken down and rebuilt wrong by men who claimed to love them.
I finish with the shirts and move to check the shelves.
Everything is perfect. Folded precisely. Organized.
Control freak.
I step out of the closet, mentally checking off the task. Done. Easy. No weird feelings about touching his sweaters.
The bathroom door opens.
Steam rolls out first. Then Nico.
Water droplets cling to skin stretched over muscle. A white towel hangs low on his hips. Very low. The kind of low that makes me wonder about gravity and physics and whether God has a cruel sense of humor.
We both freeze.
His dark eyes lock onto mine. Surprise flickers across his face before something harder replaces it. His jaw tightens. Water trails down his chest in paths I absolutely should not be tracking.
Look away. Look away. Look away.
I don't look away.
My gaze drops to his shoulders first. Broad. Built for carrying weight. The kind of shoulders that could pin someone against a wall.
Stop.
I can't.
His chest is a canvas of contradictions. Smooth olive skin interrupted by scars. One thin white line curves beneath his left pectoral. Another, thicker and angrier, slashes across his ribs.
His abs contract as he breathes. The V of his hips disappears beneath that towel, and my mouth goes dry. Actually dry. Like someone stuffed cotton in my throat.
This is your boss. Your BOSS. The man who signs your paychecks.
But my body doesn't care about paychecks.
Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse thrums in places it has no business thrumming. I'm suddenly aware of every inch of my own skin, like his gaze is touching me even though he hasn't moved.
"Kristen."
His voice cuts through the steam. Low. Controlled. My name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier.
"I—" Words. I need words. "Giulia said. The closet. Colors. The new laundry girl mixes things up."
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
"I didn't know you were—" I gesture vaguely at his entire situation. The towel. The water. The muscles that have no right existing outside of Renaissance paintings.
"Clearly."
He doesn't move to cover himself. Doesn't reach for a robe or retreat to the bathroom. Just stands there, dripping.