Azra
Even though Matteo drives with the same fast, smooth control, the ride back to the Caruso compound feels longer than the ride into town. With my arms wrapped around his waist and cheek pressed to his back, I try to comprehend everything that’s happened today.
Minutes of deliberation only bring me more confusion.
My thoughts are the equivalent of a necklace left in a jewelry box for too long. Every time I free one thread, another tightens around it.
I could tell Matteo the truth about why I want to marry a man I loathe, but then what?
Would my confession change the rules?
Would it ruin everything?
It could make my goal unattainable because there are rules Matteo must follow—rules that don’t apply to me since the Turkish mafia operates without a central authority.
We’re still out on our own, hence my ability to marry a foreigner without Henry Gottle Sr.’s approval.
The moment I speak the truth out loud, the fragile structure I’ve built over the past four years might collapse, leaving me with nothing but the consequences of my actions.
But then there’s Matteo. Dark, dangerous Matteo, who terrifies millions but also buys a cake for me to celebrate the birthday of my best friend after teaching me how to defend myself.
That last part keeps replaying in my head.
Did he teach me self-defense because I accidentally revealed my plan when I let my emotions speak for me? Or was it something else?
My gut is telling me it is the latter, but I’m still cautious.
It seems like more, but wasn’t that Matteo’s point only days ago?
Wanting something you can’t have is a dangerous game.
As the wind rushes past us, I re-secure my grip around Matteo’s waist. He doesn’t react, but his breathing subtly shifts. It’s the same hooked breath he did when I walked out of the changing room wearing clothes that fit me like a second skin.
There are sides of him I don’t think anyone else has seen, sides he doesn’t willingly show.
He probably doesn’t even realize he’s revealing them to me.
Instead of scaring me, the thought blooms warm recklessness in my chest.
As the Caruso compound gates appear, my stomach tightens. The closer we get, the heavier the tension becomes. Humidity and static, which always arrive before a storm, make the air feel thick.
Matteo must feel it too. His shoulders tense up as his eyes connect with mine through the mirror attached to his bike. We’re standing on the edge of something extremely dangerous, but instead of inching back, we keep walking forward.
He parks the bike, and I slide off. My legs shake for reasons unrelated to the speed of the ride. Matteo takes off his helmet, then runs a hand through his hair. The visual of his mussed hair is breath-stealing. It reminds me of how it looked after I ran my fingers through it while he ate me.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but I’m saved when a small hand slips into mine. Camille smiles up at me, tugging insistently, and I finally breathe out the breath I’m holding.
“I think someone wants to color,” I tell Matteo, grateful for the excuse to step away from the tension threatening to swallow me whole. I need to think this through ahead of committing an irreversible error. “Shall we meet up for dinner?”
Clearly as desperate for time to think as I am, Matteo nods.
“I’ll meet you in the dining room at seven.”
When I nod, his eyes linger on me a moment too long before he turns away.
A minute later, Camille guides me down the long hallway toward her room. She’s vibrating with excitement, and I can’t help but smile.
Her room is bright and colorful, filled with drawings taped to the walls and stuffed animals arranged in neat rows. It must be her playroom because there’s no bed in sight.
As I admire the pretty dresses hanging on a freestanding rack, she rushes to her desk to rummage through the drawer. She returns with a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper and presses it into my hands, her eyes shining.
“For me?” I ask, fanning my hand across my chest, shocked about a second gift in one day.
Bouncing on her toes, she nods.
Under her mother’s watchful eye, who stands in the doorway, I carefully unwrap my gift. Inside is a sketchpad and a box of colored pencils.
My throat tightens. “Camille… this is so sweet.” I crouch down to her level. “Thank you. Did you want to draw now? I have time.”
Her eyes shoot to Lucia. Her father isn’t here to translate, but Lucia has no issues deciphering the disappointment on her face.
“She’d love to draw with you, but she has dance class soon. We were on our way out when she spotted you, and she couldn’t wait a second longer to give you the gift she purchased for you.”
I smile at Lucia in thanks for the translation before I return my attention to Camille. “Oh… that’s why you’re wearing a tutu? I thought you were just wearing it because it’s super pretty. I’d wear it all the time if I had a tutu that nice.”
Lucia’s balled hand shoots up to brace her chest when Camille giggles softly before she twirls on the spot to fan out her tutu. I hardly know the little girl standing before me, but I’m certain every giggle she gives is a treasure worth hoarding.
As Lucia gathers Camille’s dance bag from a room next to her playroom, I hug her to thank her for the gift before following them out. Sketchpad tucked under my arm, I wave them goodbye from the foyer before climbing the stairwell that leads to the west wing of the mansion.
The hallway is quiet as I walk back toward my room, but the earlier tension still buzzes under my skin. It doubles the length of my strides and makes my fatigue nonexistent.
I don’t think I have it in me not to throw myself at Matteo if he does one more kind thing today.
I’m a mere woman, not a saint.
Halfway to our room, voices reach my ears. I freeze. Not intentionally, more instinctively, like my body knows something important is about to happen before my mind catches up.
“He took her to the gym?” Elio says, disbelief thick in his voice.
“Yeah,” Nico replies. “Taught her self-defense.”
There’s a beat of silence before Elio breaks it with an unsteady tone. “Maybe he was serious when he said he wasn’t interested in keeping her after the ruse was over.”
My heart stops as my happiness circles the drain.
Nico snorts, but that is the start and end of his reply.
He leaves the floor to Elio.
“If he wanted her, why teach her how to protect herself? It’s pointless unless he’s planning to ship her back to her piece-of-shit ex.
” Elio lowers his voice, but I still hear him.
“It’s also suspicious that the gym is directly across from the bakery Antonio frequents.
Anyone would swear Matteo wants this over sooner rather than later.
He’s flaunting her in front of Antonio even more than the schedule she gave him. ”
My stomach flips when Nico rejoins the conversation. “He also said they didn’t fuck.” He pffts. “There’s no way I could stop if I made the woman I want scream my name.”
“He stopped because he knew Giovanni was right. Antonio would have seen straight through their lies if she had arrived at the event looking how she did at lunch.”
Nico hums in agreement. “One climax had Antonio frothing at the mouth. But…”
I flatten myself against the wall, my heart pounding so loudly that I can’t hear what he says next. This can’t be right. Matteo didn’t make me come to provoke Antonio. He was on his knees, apologizing. It was completely unrelated to Antonio, right?
My heart screams yes, but my head is on the opposing team.
It all makes sense.
Too much sense.
He made me pliable under his touch, and then I acted like an idiot who believes an orgasm fixes everything. I was jealous and possessive, and in minutes, I pushed aside plans years in the making.
I feel stupid. So stupid.
I thought our connection was more than strategy, that the cake represented something meaningful. I thought he taught me self-defense because he saw me—the real me, not the version I’m supposed to show—and he cared enough not to want to see me get hurt.
But it was all part of the plan, the ruse.
It’s just a game to him.
None of it is real.
While swallowing hard, I blink away the sting in my eyes. I refuse to cry. Not here, not over this, and not over him.
I will myself to move. My legs feel like they’re made of concrete, and my thoughts are a chaotic mess of humiliation and heartbreak. I need to get to my room, close the door, and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.
As I move away from the door, it swings open, and Nico exits.
He balks, his brows rising as his eyes bore into mine.
He takes in my tear-stained cheeks, trembling mouth, and rigid grip on the sketchpad before asking, “Azra… are you okay?”
No. Absolutely not. I’m falling apart. But I can’t reveal that to him. I can’t let anyone know that. So I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and lie through my teeth. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He doesn’t buy my lie. Concern softens his usually sharp expression.
Before he can say a word, I thrust the sketchpad toward him as if it’s a prop in a play I’m desperately trying to improv. “Camille got me a really thoughtful gift.” I muster a watery smile. “I’m a bit of a sook when it comes to being spoiled.”
His expression shifts. First confusion, then understanding, then sympathy.
“Azra—”
My feet finally answer the screaming prompts of my brain.
“See you at dinner,” I call over my shoulder, my voice too high to hide its brittleness.
I practically sprint down the hall as the weight of everything presses down on me so hard that I struggle to breathe.
I don’t answer the screams of my lungs until I reach my room and the door clicks shut behind me.
Then I crumple.