9. VALENTINO
9
VALENTINO
I am done waiting.
Layla has this maddening habit of pulling me in and pushing me away, like I’m some kind of toy she can pick up when it suits her and discard when it doesn’t.
At first, I figured she was just busy.
Then, twenty-four hours passed. No text.
Another day. Silence.
And then another.
By the fourth day, I wasn’t giving her the benefit of the doubt anymore. She was avoiding me.
Layla can pretend all she wants that this was just business, but our deal requires her to be seen with me, on standby, ready to play her part. If she thinks she can disappear like this, she’s dead wrong.
So, I’m making the decision to surprise her at her apartment.
Whether she likes it or not.
As I pull up to her apartment, she’s standing just outside her building. Her hair cascades down her back in loose waves.
She shifts her weight slightly, the golden sundress clinging to the curve of her hips before flaring out just enough to tease at the shape of her thighs. The thin straps barely contain the slope of her shoulders, drawing my attention to the neckline, a subtle dip, just deep enough to hint at the full, the tempting shape of her breasts without giving away too much. The fabric stretches over her curves, hugging her just right, emphasizing the soft swell that rises with each slow breath she takes.
My dick begins to throb beneath my jeans, and my mind drifts off to the things we did the other night. The taste of her lips, her grip fisting my cock, and the sensation of being buried in her warm center.
And that’s the problem.
Because my imagination is a dangerous place.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly through my nose. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. Shouldn’t be noticing the way the hem of her dress dances around her toned legs, teasing glimpses of olive skin that I have no right wanting to touch.
But hell, how can I not?
She’s all golden light and warm curves, like a damn invitation to sin. The kind of woman men lose themselves in without even realizing they’ve fallen for.
And I can’t afford to fall. Especially since she left me after all.
We both know the other night shouldn’t have happened, and we can’t cross that line again.
Not when this is temporary. Not when the entire world thinks we’re together and when we have to sell the lie.
Yet, my skin is already burning.
This was supposed to be easy.
But standing here, watching the way the evening breeze lifts the fabric just enough to make my fists clench, I realize something.
There’s nothing easy about wanting something you can’t have.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. Her attention is on something else. Some one else.
A child.
The little boy clings to her, his tiny hands fisted into her dress, his head tilting back to look at the sky with wide, curious eyes.
“Mommy, can we go inside now?” His voice is soft and innocent.
My world tilts on its axis.
Mommy?
I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing, but nothing makes sense.
Layla is a mother?
I take a step out of my car, my throat suddenly dry. “Layla?”
Her body stiffens at the sound of my voice.
Slowly, she turns, and for a fraction of a second, I see it, the sheer panic in her eyes before her features change into something unreadable.
The little boy tugs at her sleeve, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
Layla swallows hard and brushes a strand of hair from his face, setting him down.
“Play here for a little bit, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
The boy nods obediently, waddling over to a tiny playhouse set up near the porch.
Then, she straightens and faces me head-on, her expression a mixture of annoyance and defiance. “What are you doing here?”
I barely hear her.
My eyes are still locked on the child.
He looks like her. Same delicate features. But those eyes… So familiar. Why?
My stomach twists.
“How old is he?” My voice comes out low, raspy.
She hesitates. Just for a second.
“That’s none of your business.”
I finally tear my gaze away from the boy, meeting her eyes with steel in mine.
“You disappeared. You haven’t answered any of my texts. I had to track you down just to get answers.”
Layla lets out an exasperated breath. “I’ve been busy, Valentino.”
“Too busy to uphold your end of the deal?”
She crosses her arms. “I don’t recall signing a contract that says I need to check in with you every hour.”
I step closer, my patience fraying. “No, but it does say you need to be seen with me, regularly. How are we supposed to sell this relationship if you vanish?”
“I don’t need to justify myself to you.”
“Actually, you do.”
She clenches her jaw. I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to find a way out of this conversation.
Always the runner.
I draw closer, enough to notice the evening air is thick with the scent of her, something warm, feminine, and utterly intoxicating. It’s a mix of sweet citrus and something floral.
“Look, what happened the other night was a—"
"Mistake." She says it fast, like she had the word ready on the tip of her tongue, like she’s been preparing for this conversation.
But there’s something off about the way she says it, too sharp, too rehearsed. Like she’s saying it more for herself than for me.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. "Right. A mistake." The words taste bitter, but I let them sit between us. "It can't happen again."
She nods, too quickly. "Of course not."
I should leave it at that. Should turn around and walk away, let the whole damn thing fade into nothing. But I don’t. Because she won’t look at me.
Her arms are crossed, nails digging into the bare skin of her upper arms, and she’s staring somewhere past my shoulder, like eye contact might shatter whatever fragile wall she’s trying to put between us.
Then, she sighs.
“Why does it even matter? I heard about Eva, and if she wins and takes your land, what happens then? Our whole arrangement falls apart anyway.”
I still at the mention of Eva.
“How do you know about that?” I keep my voice carefully measured.
She looks away. “News travels fast.”
I don’t buy it. But before I can press further, something tugs at my pant leg.
I look down.
The little boy.
His big, brown eyes blink up at me, curious and bright.
“Wanna play?” He holds up a small toy car.
The simple request knocks the air out of my lungs.
Layla tenses. “Vincent, sweetheart, let’s not—”
“I’d love to.” I crouch down. If nothing else, this buys me more time.
She’s hiding something, something big. And I’m going to find out what.
Vincent beams and hands me the car. “I love cars.”
I chuckle, flipping the toy in my hand. “That so? When I was a kid, I used to race cars all over my house. Drove my parents crazy.”
“Races! Vroom…”
“Yes. And now I have a grown-up car that goes very fast,” I point to my Porsche GT3 RS trying to impress the boy.
“Wow.”
We start racing the tiny cars along the pavement, and for a moment, it’s easy. Natural.
Too natural.
Layla is watching us closely, arms crossed, but there’s something else in her gaze now, something softer, something conflicted.
An hour passes before any of us realizes it.
Layla clears her throat. “Vincent, it’s time for dinner.”
He pouts. “No! I wanna keep playing.”
Layla sighs, rubbing her temples. “You have to eat.”
Vincent turns to me, wide-eyed. “Will you stay for dinner?”
Layla shoots me a look that screams, “Say no.”
But before I can answer, Vincent’s bottom lip wobbles.
Oh, hell.
Layla caves. “Fine. He can stay.”
Inside, the apartment is warm and cozy, filled with memories, the tiny hand-painted mugs, the drawings taped to the fridge, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air.
It’s a home. Not just a place to live.
I take a seat while Layla moves around the kitchen, effortlessly preparing dinner.
She’s different here, softer somehow, like all the edges she keeps sharpened around me have dulled.
Vincent chatters happily beside me, showing me his coloring book, but his energy seems to be draining fast.
He holds up a drawing. “And this is my superhero.”
I study it. The figure is tall, in a sharp suit, hair swept back.
I blink.
That… looks a lot like me.
“What’s his name?” My voice comes out oddly hoarse.
Vincent grins. “Dad-man.”
Something inside me shatters.
Layla goes rigid, her knuckles turning white as she grips the serving spoon.
I glance at her, but she won’t meet my eyes.
After dinner, she tucks Vincent into bed. When she returns, I’m waiting on the couch.
She stops short. “You’re still here?”
“When were you going to tell me you had a son?”
Her face drains of color.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
I stand. “The hell you don’t.”
She swallows. “The father is not in the picture. That’s all you need to know.”
I stare at her, searching her face for the lie I know is there.
But she won’t break.
Fine. If she wants to play this game, so be it.
I slide the contract across the table. “There are new stipulations. Including a marriage clause. Six months of dating, followed by a one-year marriage, then divorce. You get paid three hundred thousand dollars total.”
Her hands tremble as she picks up the pen.
She hesitates.
“We need to make sure Vincent isn’t affected by this,” she says finally. “I never wanted him involved.”
I nod. “You can tell him we’re just friends.”
She lets out a breath, then signs.
“I, Layla, sign my life away to the scheming, plotting capitalist that is Valentino Marchetti.”
I smirk. “You forgot ‘infamous wine merchant.’”
She rolls her eyes.
But as our gazes lock, something unspoken crackles between us.
I should leave.
Instead, I linger just a little too long.