13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
S ophie
The sun hits my face gently, warm and lazy, and I groan, turning over with a sigh as I burrow deeper into the sheets. They’re ridiculously soft and smooth against my skin, and warm in a way that wraps around me like arms.
Arms?
My brows pinch faintly. I nuzzle into the pillow, expecting the familiar scent of lavender and clean cotton from my apartment.
But that’s not what I get.
This pillow smells masculine and expensive, and the sheets aren’t mine. My eyes snap open, and I bolt up like a straight arrow.
The room is dipped in a muted cream-and-gold palette, tall windows stretching high above floors I’ve never seen before. There’s a minimalist lamp by the bed, and the light coming in is filtered through thick curtains that aren’t mine.
Where the hell am I?
I sit up quickly, clutching the sheets to my chest when I realize that I’m naked.
The dress I wore last night is folded over a nearby armchair. My heels are neatly placed beneath it, and my clutch sits on the side table like someone put it there.
Which means someone undressed me.
No. The memories of last night flood back. Not that they needed to, because there’s no way I’d have forgotten what happened.
Forgotten the way he kissed me and the tremors that spread like wildfire through silk before he pressed his mouth between my legs, his tongue on my clit and my fingers tangled in his hair.
Or his fingers, either.
I peek under the covers instinctively, but the feeling hits me like a rush of liquor down my throat, warming my insides. His fingers . Two of them inside me, while the wet heat of his tongue brought me to the brink of tears.
My legs slam shut beneath the sheets as a gasp rips out of me.
The sheets fall from my hands. “I slept with him.” The words leave my mouth in a hoarse whisper.
Dear god. I slept with Dom.
My stomach turns, twisting with panic and disbelief. I squeeze my eyes shut and press a hand to my forehead.
No, no, no . I shake my head vehemently, gripping the sheets until my knuckles turn bare.
I told myself I wouldn’t cross that line again. When I walked into that party last night, I repeated the promise like a mantra when I felt him watching me from across the room. His gaze was sharp and scorching, melting through the dress I had on.
There were tables between us, people gathering in groups, but it felt like he was right in front of me, undressing every stitch on my skin.
And I promised… until I got into the accident, and he felt like a lifeline, not a mistake waiting to happen.
I clamp a hand over my mouth as bile creeps up my throat. I stumble into the bathroom, flip the light on, and clutch the edge of the sink as I lean forward, chest heaving.
But nothing comes. Just the sound of my uneven breath and the tremble in my limbs.
My reflection is pale, shaken. My hair falls in waves around my face, wild and loose, like last night. The same way he would’ve seen it fall when—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You almost died,” I whisper aloud, voice cracking. “Nobody would blame you for seeking comfort. You were scared. That’s all this was.”
The lie sticks in my throat.
“It’s a pass, Sophie,” I tell myself again, louder this time. “A one-time slip. You don’t have to—” My voice gives out, bending under the weight of hysteria.
Because I know better. I didn’t sleep with Domenico Moretti because I was scared. I had sex with him because I wanted to.
I’d been thinking about it for so long that I gave in when I finally found an excuse. I could’ve pushed him away, but I didn’t.
It’s my fault.
A low groan of shame peels past my lips as I drag my fingers over my face. Gritting my teeth, I face my reflection again.
“The first step towards resolution is acceptance,” I murmur. The words barely make sense, but sleeping with my boss and the enemy doesn’t make more sense either.
Last time, I pretended like it didn’t happen. Perhaps that’s why I slept with him again. It had to be a mental need for closure.
A simple conversation about how it shouldn’t happen again should fix things.
***
I chicken out.
The second I step out of the bathroom, my pep talk flies out the window, and I go for my clothes instead, slipping hurriedly into a dress with a broken zipper.
My clutch slips from its position under my arm as I grab my heels with my other hand, tiptoeing to the door.
My car.
“Wait,” I pause by the door, shaking my head. “Where’s my car?”
The car accident.
Of course. An ambulance took me to the hospital from the wreck, so I have no idea where I have no idea where it ended up. I vaguely remember Dom and Raffaele talking about it, something about a tow truck and damage reports, but I was too dazed to care.
Now I care.
Because I can’t walk out of here looking like this and wait for someone to explain why I’m barefoot, holding up my dress like it’s one wrong move from a wardrobe malfunction.
Not when I look like I just did the walk of shame across five boroughs.
“A cab will have to do,” I mutter, defeated, straightening as best I can. The door creaks softly when I open it, and I slip out into the hallway, still balancing on my toes like a burglar sneaking out of a bad decision.
And then I freeze.
There’s a woman down the hall, arms full of freshly folded linens. Her uniform is crisp, and her expression is calm and curious as she watches me from beside a half-open guest room door.
I try to keep moving. Maybe if I act confident, I can pass as someone invited.
No such luck.
“Good morning,” she says gently, and her gaze drops to my hand clutching my purse. Then to my bare feet. My shoes dangle helplessly from my other hand.
Her eyes rise again, and she offers a warm, polite smile that does nothing to hide the knowing look in her eyes.
“Would you like some coffee before you go?”
I blink. Once. Twice. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I’ve never wanted to evaporate more. “No, thank you.” I offer a wobbly smile. “Could you…maybe… point me to the exit?”
“Sure,” she nods and I feel like I’m past the worst, then she adds, “but I’m sure we could find something…” her gaze takes in my appearance once more, “more appropriate for you to wear home?”
Her question hangs there, thick and syrupy with implication.
“Maybe I can have that coffee?” I murmur, my voice small. My pride has already packed up and left. I might as well wait for the earth to swallow me whole with caffeine in hand.
The housekeeper’s smile grows a touch softer, more motherly now. “Of course, dear. This way.”
Minutes later, I’m seated at a marble counter in a kitchen so sleek it looks like it belongs in an interior design magazine.
I cradle the mug in both hands, letting the warmth distract me from the fact that I am now fully dressed in his clothes—oversized grey sweats and a black button-down that hangs off one shoulder.
I don’t know what’s worse: that they’re so comfortable I don’t want to take them off, or that they smell like him. Like sex.
The housekeeper had returned with the borrowed clothes after she handed me the coffee, folded neatly, and a gentle, “They’re freshly laundered, but Mr. Moretti wouldn’t mind.”
Of course, he wouldn’t.
Now I sip the coffee, grateful for the silence, when I hear footsteps entering from the far hall. They’re slow, heavy, and unmistakably familiar.
I don’t even need to look to know who it is. His presence hits before his voice does, curling around the edges of the room like a current of static.
Dom.
He pauses just behind me. “I see you found the coffee.”
I lift the mug halfway to my lips, forcing a composure I don’t have. “I didn’t break anything. That counts as a win, right?”
He doesn’t reply, but his gaze rakes over my body in a way that makes me wonder if it’s the coffee that’s hot or my body.
“The bruise on your collarbone is fading,” he murmurs and reaches out, without warning, to touch it. I inhale sharply as my grip on the mug’s handle falters. “We should go to the hospital to check your temple.”
His fingers brush over the edges where the bandage meets unbruised skin, and I exhale quietly, carefully dropping the mug to the island.
Dom steps back. “It can wait until you’re done with your coffee. I’ll have my driver bring the car around. I sent him to get something.” He’s turning already, like it’s settled, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.
“Wait.” I jump up, holding my hand out. He looks over his shoulder, and I find myself hesitating, staring into his eyes. I brush my tongue over my lower lip. “I—thank you for last night, but I think I’ve got it from here. If you could tell me where I can go to pick up my car.”
His brows furrow, drawing a sharp line between his eyes. “Pick up your car?”
I nod, trying to keep it casual. “I know it’s a wreck by now, but I should get a head start on the repairs. That way, it’ll be in working condition before I resume work. I mean… I do have some days off, right?”
Dom turns toward me, arms falling to his sides as a slow, confused frown pulls at his face. “You’re not fixing your car, Sophie. I handled it already.”
That stops me. “You… what?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Had it towed to a repair facility we trust. Everything’s already in motion.”
A beat of silence stretches between us before he adds, voice low and almost scolding, “And why wouldn’t I give you time off after a car accident?”
My lips part, but no sound comes out.
Because you’re Domenico Moretti? Demanding? Ruthless? Cruel?
“I don’t know,” I whisper. I don’t know what to think when he throws me off like that. I’d have preferred that he blamed me for leaving early, but even admitting I made up an excuse last night led to a kiss.
His eyes are too soft for me. Too patient and understanding. “I have to go,” I say in a small voice. “I’ll get your clothes back to you after I’ve washed them.”
As I step closer, Dom moves, planting himself firmly between me and the hallway like a human barricade. “You can’t leave,” he says.