Chapter 21
Valentina
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, willing my heart rate to return to normal.
It’s useless. The way he looked at me when the app told me we should kiss made it hard to remember how to breathe.
What started as an ill-advised attraction to him has morphed into something so much more dangerous. Something so much harder to resist.
I feel the pull of him, like an invisible force field that's luring us ever closer together, no matter how hard I resist.
But I must resist. There’s no other choice here.
So what if his opening up to me the way he does has made my heart feel as though it's doubled in size?
So what if I can feel his smile in my bone marrow?
I'm here to do a job. I'm here to show the world the real Max.
But now that I've seen him, I want him all for myself.
And somehow, somehow with the rain still pelting outside, showing no signs of letting up, we’re about to share a bed.
My emotions swirl in my chest, and I heave out a breath. Max is the son of the people who ruined my life, the people who forced my dad from the country. His family is the reason I masquerade as someone I'm not. The reason I can't simply be Valentina.
I have to remember it.
I've got no choice.
Our easy camaraderie is based on a lie. Max thinks he's getting to know Fabiana Fontaine, but she's just a character I invented to survive.
I'm Lady Valentina Romano, daughter of the traitor his father exiled. If he knew that, would he still be scrolling through his apps, making me laugh, opening up to me, looking at me the way he does?
The answer makes my chest tighten.
I wipe the condensation from the mirror with my hand.
My hair is wet from the shower, and I've scrubbed off any last remnants of makeup.
I pull on my nightdress, instantly regretting the insignia sprawled across my chest. Commoner by Day, Princess by Night.
A gift from my Nona that at once seemed cute and funny but now? Not so much.
I find an ancient hair dryer under the sink and quickly dry off my hair, the burning smell from years of collected dust filling the air. I collect my things and return to the bedroom.
Max is sitting on the chair, already in a pair of pajamas that I wish were grandfatherly and deeply unattractive.
But of course they're not. This is Max we're talking about here.
He's in a white singlet, tight enough to show off every single muscle in his possession—which is a frankly ridiculous number—and a pair of plaid cotton boxers that show off his long, athletic legs.
Why didn't he buy an old man's nightshirt that reaches from his neck to his toes with a matching nightcap? That way he’d look way more Scrooge McDuck—and way less hot off-duty prince.
“Your turn,” I say, my voice far too bright, and as he looks up at me his eyes darken. It does things to me—unnecessary, tempting things—and so I busy myself with returning my wash bag to my suitcase, placing my glasses on the nightstand.
“I've never seen you with your hair down or your glasses off,” he says.
“It happens every night,” I reply without looking in his direction.
“You look—”
When he doesn't finish his sentence, I flick my gaze back to him. Bad mistake. He's now standing fully upright, his shoulders broader than any shoulders ought to be, all masculine edges and sinew, his eyes trained on me with an intensity that makes my belly somersault.
“What?” I ask, my heart beating against my ribs.
“You look beautiful,” he says, and it's like the air has been sucked from the room.
I clench my hands into fists at my sides, willing the ever-growing feelings I have for this man away.
“You’re just being nice.”
His eyes trail over me, and my body tingles wherever he looks. They land on the insignia on my nightdress. “Princess by night?” he asks, his lips quirking.
“Just a silly gift from my nona.” I raise my finger as though to scold him. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas?” he asks with a laugh. “No ideas here.”
If the look of fire in his eyes is anything to go by, I don’t believe him for a minute.
“Good,” I say as I pull back the covers and slip between the sheets, noticing the pillow wall he constructed. It’s flimsy, but it will have to do.
“I’ll use the bathroom,” he says, and as he leaves the room, I pull the blankets up to my ears.
I lie in bed, willing myself to fall asleep before he returns. Of course I don’t. I’m so tightly wound I’m in fear of bursting out of the covers like a jack-in-the-box, only I’ll be wearing a nightdress with a once innocent insignia that now reads as a personal invitation to Max.
Eventually, he returns to the room. As he slips into the bed beside me, I can’t help but catch his scent in the air, a shockingly attractive blend of musk and masculinity.
I switch off the bedside light, and immediately we’re thrown into darkness but for the dim streetlights, lending the linen curtains a muted glow. I turn my back to him and bunch up my pillow. I take a few deep breaths, trying to force myself to relax. “Good night,” I say.
“Good night,” he replies.
I lie still, waiting to hear his breath deepen, knowing sleep will elude me until it does.
Eventually, he asks in a whisper, “Are you still awake?”
“Yes,” I reply, turning onto my back. “You?”
“Oh, sound asleep.”
I smile into the darkness, the sound of the rain reverberating around the room.
“Is this the sleep talking you told me about?”
“Who knows? I’m asleep,” he replies. “Can I ask you a question?”
"Sure."
"Fabiana starts with an F, right?"
"There's no silent P, like in pterodactyl, if that's what you're asking."
"So why do you always wear a necklace with a V?"
My hand instinctively goes to the pendant at my throat, the pendant I never remove.
"It was my nona's," I reply automatically, which is the truth. It was Nona's. "V for Violetta."
Also V for Valentina.
It’s wrong to lie to Max after what he's shared with me tonight. But what else can I do? I can't blow my cover with this man, not when I'm finally starting to understand who he is beneath his public persona. Not when I’ve got a job to do.
Not when I feel what I do for him.
"You two are close."
"She's all I've got," I reply before I can stop myself and immediately bite my lip.
Keep your guard up, Valentina.
"You said you’ve lived with your nona since you were twelve?"
“That’s right.”
The sheets rustle as he turns over to face me, his scent filling the air once more. It causes my brain to go temporarily offline. "Why? What happened when you were twelve?" he asks, his voice close to my ear. "If you don't mind my asking."
My belly twists at the memories of how my life was turned on its head, how I was forced to grow up almost overnight. But what can I tell this man whose father I have to blame for my trauma?
I need to tell him something, and a partial truth seems like the safest option. “My dad had to leave Ledonia.”
“Why?”
I scrunch my eyes shut. “Can we…not?”
He places a warm hand on my shoulder, and I almost levitate off the bed, I’m so filled with tension. “I’m so sorry. You clearly don’t want to talk about this. It’s none of my business. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” My heart is banging against my ribs.
“I want to know you,” he says simply.
We fall into silence, and I wonder what Max now makes of me. What questions must be running through his head? I want to answer his questions, and I’ll give him as much information as I can share. He deserves that much from me.
“My family circumstances changed when my dad left Ledonia. He wanted me to continue my education here, so he sent me to live in Villadorata with my nona.”
My words fill the surrounding air. Words I've never spoken to another soul. They might not be the full truth, but they're still the truth.
“That must have been so hard for you.”
Hard? Try devastating.
“It wasn't exactly a royal parade.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“It's been just me and Nona for all these years. I see my dad once or twice a year, but it's different from living with him.”
He's quiet for a moment, and I can practically hear him processing, trying to piece together the puzzle of my life with the limited information I'm giving him.
Part of me wants to tell him everything. About watching my father’s face crumble when he realized we had to leave everything behind. About his late-night escape. About me having to learn in my new life to make myself invisible, because visibility meant vulnerability.
But I can’t. Not unless I’m planning on blowing up my entire life.
"What about friends?" he asks softly. "Growing up, I mean. That must have been lonely."
"I kept to myself, mostly. Focused on school."
"And now? You must have colleagues, people you're close to."
I can hear the genuine concern in his voice, and it seems dangerous. When was the last time someone asked about my life like this?
"I have work friends," I say carefully. "But I tend to keep my professional and personal lives separate."
Which kind of goes with the territory when you lead a double life.
"That sounds lonely, too."
"It's safer. Mixing the two can get complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Sweat beads on my forehead. This conversation is like trying to tiptoe in stilettos through bubble wrap without making the bubbles go snap.
"People have expectations about who I should be, what I should want. It's easier to maintain boundaries."
"But doesn't that get exhausting, always being what people expect instead of who you are?"
It’s my entire life.
“I suppose,” I reply.
“Maybe we have more in common than you’d think,” he says softly.
I turn to face him, the outline of his features only just visible in the dim light. “Max, you were born into a life of privilege. I had the rug pulled right out from under my feet before I was even a teenager.”
“Your world may have changed suddenly, and mine more gradually, but neither of us got to enjoy the childhood other people get. We both had to grow up too fast.”
Thoughts ping like pinballs in my mind. I've always regarded myself as the underdog, the scrappy kid whose life went off the rails, who's had to fight for everything she's got, hiding behind the facade of Fabiana Fontaine. Max has the world laid out for him on a gold platter.
I've always thought we couldn't be more different if we tried.
But now that I'm lying here, next to this person I've always envied for his privilege and family, his position and carefree life, there's truth in his words.
We are more alike than I'd ever given credit. It’s why I can see him for who he really is under his layers. I recognize myself in him.
We both perform for others.
We both hide our true selves.
Only we do it for very different reasons.
“Fabiana,” he says, and there's something in the way he says my fake name that makes my chest tighten. "You don't have to be anything other than yourself with me.”
If only you knew how impossible that is.
“That's very kind of you to say.”
"I'm not being kind. I'm being selfish. As I said, I want to know you. Really know you.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice breathy, not sure I want to hear his reply.
“Because…because I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“Rude, sharp, name calling?” I joke in an attempt to break some of the tension between us.
“Intriguing,” he replies, the word hitting me like an arrow through the heart.
A change of subject is needed, and fast, before I do or say something I might regret.
“My nona told me the pies from the bakery here are amazing. We used to get them when I was a kid.” Suddenly, I can almost taste the strawberry and rhubarb, the apple, the blueberry.
“You’re from around here?”
Oops. That backfired.
I give him my standard answer. “I’m from the north.”
“We’re in the north. Are you telling me you’re from around here? You never said.”
I can’t share the name of my family estate. That could give the game away, if he’s even aware of what happened to my family. Instead, I give him the name of the little town a few kilometers from what was once our gate.
“Campoverde?” he repeats in surprise, lifting his head from the pillow. “But that’s not far from here. You’re a local.”
“Not really. I don’t remember coming to this town before.”
“But you know the pies.”
“I do.”
He relaxes back onto his pillow. “That’s settled then.”
“What’s settled?”
“Pie for breakfast.”
I let out a light laugh. “A man after my own heart.”
There’s silence for a beat before he replies quietly, “I am.”
Instantly, my belly butterflies take flight, and I clear my throat in a vain attempt to halt their progress.
But here’s the thing about lying in a bed with a man, talking about things that matter to you, opening up more than you have with anyone before.
It brings you closer to him, it makes you want things you can’t have.
It makes you want to open up to him, to tell him who you really are.
I want to be the real me with him, Valentina Romano.
But it would mean risking everything if I was.