Chapter 6- The Morning After…and a Billionaire’s Proposition
Sasha
Navigating the streets to Trastevere turns out to be a challenge, especially at this hour of the morning, and as I avoid meeting anyone on the way.
I haven’t done this in a while—a walk of shame. Except there’s nothing shameful about what happened yesterday.
It was surreal and I’m still trying to process what happened. One moment I was mourning a lost future, and the next, I was tangled in the sheets with the most intoxicating man I’ve ever met.
This morning, when I woke up in his embrace, I panicked and slipped out of bed before Matteo woke up.
I needed space, a moment to breathe and comes to terms with what happened.
Luckily for me, the residents of Trastevere prefer sleeping in and I make it to the apartment unseen.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting out a long breath.
My body aches pleasantly, reminding me of every place Matteo touched, kissed, claimed.
I catch my reflection in the entryway mirror—hair wild, lips still slightly swollen, a small mark on my collarbone where his mouth had been particularly enthusiastic.
"What the hell did you do, Sasha?" I whisper to my reflection, but there's no real regret in my voice. Just wonder.
I strip off yesterday's clothes as I make my way to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower is a blessing on my tender muscles, and I close my eyes as it washes over me.
Images from last night flood my mind . Matteo's hands, strong and confident, mapping every inch of my skin. The way his eyes darkened as he went down on me and literally devoured me.
The sound of his voice, rough with desire, whispering Italian endearments against my neck.
After the first time, we'd lain together catching our breath, and I'd been certain that was it—a perfect, passionate encounter to mark my first night in Rome.
But then his fingers had begun tracing lazy patterns on my hip, his mouth finding mine again, and we'd started all over. And then again after that.
I run my hands over my body, feeling the ghost of his touch everywhere. My fingers trace the path his had taken—down my neck, across my breasts, circling my nipples until they harden under the spray.
I gasp as I remember how he'd taken each one into his mouth, sucking and grazing with his teeth until I was writhing beneath him.
My hand drifts lower, across my stomach to the apex of my thighs. I'm already wet, aroused just from the memory of him. I close my eyes, leaning against the cool tile as my fingers find my clit, circling slowly.
I remember the weight of him above me, the perfect fullness of his dick when he was inside me.
My fingers move with practiced rhythm now, but it's Matteo's face I see behind closed eyelids—the way his jaw tightened when I first took him in my hand, the corded muscles of his neck as he threw his head back in pleasure.
I slide two fingers inside myself, remembering how he'd done the same last night—first with teasing slowness, then with sudden intensity that made me scream.
My free hand palms my breast, thumb flicking over the peak as he had.
I can almost feel his calloused hands replacing mine. My hips jerk forward as the pressure builds up. My fingers move faster, chasing the ghost of his touch.
"Matteo," I whisper, the sound barely audible over the rushing water.
I remember the way he looked at me, like I was something precious. How his eyes never left mine as he entered me that first time.
My breath comes faster now, steam clouding around me as my fingers work more urgently. I recall how he'd pressed me against the wall after our second time, lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into me over and over again.
The coil of pleasure tightens low in my belly. I lean more heavily against the tile, legs trembling as I chase the sensation. In my mind, it's Matteo's fingers expertly circling my clit, Matteo's voice in my ear urging me toward release.
"Ti voglio sentire," he'd whispered last night, his accent thicker in passion. "I want to feel you come for me."
The memory of those words sends a jolt through me. My fingers curl inside, finding that perfect spot as my thumb continues its relentless circles.
My free hand abandons my breast to brace against the wall as my knees threaten to buckle.
I'm close now, so close, the pressure building to an almost unbearable point. I remember Matteo's face above me, the tension in his features as he fought for control, the way his muscles flexed with each powerful thrust.
I remember how he'd flipped me over at one point, pulling my hips up, entering me from behind with a groan that seemed torn from his very soul.
How his fingers had tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to send shivers down my spine as he whispered filthy praise in a mixture of English and Italian.
The memory pushes me over the edge. My body tenses, back arching as waves of pleasure crash through me. "Matteo," I gasp, his name echoing off the bathroom tiles as my inner walls pulse around my fingers.
For several moments, I stay there, trembling against the wall as aftershocks ripple through me. When my legs finally steady, I rinse off and step out of the shower on shaky limbs.
As I towel dry, reality begins to creep back in. What exactly happened last night? A meaningless one-night stand? The beginning of something more? Neither option seems quite right.
I wrap myself in a robe and pad to the kitchen, desperate for coffee and clarity. As I wait for the espresso to brew, I check my phone for the first time since last night.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. A text message appears on my screen:
You left without saying goodbye. Let me make it up to you with dinner tonight. - Matteo.
I don’t know how to reply to his message, so I ignore it, and to keep my mind off him, I head out for a walk.
The narrow streets of Trastevere feel like a maze designed specifically to confuse tourists like me, but I don't mind getting lost.
Each wrong turn reveals another charming corner—a hidden courtyard, a centuries-old fountain, a wall of climbing ivy on a worn wooden door. It's exactly what I need to clear my head after last night's... adventure.
I wander aimlessly, pausing occasionally to snap photos of particularly scenic spots.
After an hour of walking around, I stumble upon a small piazza I haven't seen before. Around the square, a handful of cafés have set up outdoor tables.
One in particular catches my eye—Caffè Aurora, its name painted in faded gold lettering above a forest-green fa?ade.
Something about it feels inviting, with its mismatched chairs and tables adorned with tiny vases of wildflowers.
The scent of fresh pastry and rich coffee drifts from its open doors, making my decision for me.
I choose a table outside, settling into a wrought-iron chair with a view of the entire piazza. A waiter appears almost immediately, greeting me with a warm "Buongiorno" before taking my order—a cappuccino and whatever pastry he recommends.
While I wait, I people-watch. A group of nuns crosses the square, their clothes fluttering in the morning breeze. Two businessmen argue passionately over coffee at a nearby café, their hands gesturing wildly. A mother coaxes her reluctant toddler into walking just a few steps more.
This is exactly what I needed this morning—anonymity, normalcy, a chance to be just another person in this ancient city rather than a woman who left her fiancé at the altar (technically true) and then jumped into bed with a stranger (definitely true).
The waiter returns with my cappuccino and a cornetto filled with hazelnut cream. "La specialità della casa," he announces proudly before disappearing back inside.
I take a bite of the pastry and close my eyes in bliss. It's so good that for a moment, I forget everything else—Brandon, the wedding that wasn't, even Matteo.
That's when I hear it—a laugh. A specific laugh that I would recognize anywhere, one that used to make my heart skip but now makes my stomach clench.
No. It can't be.
I freeze mid-bite, pastry suspended inches from my mouth as I scan the piazza. The laugh comes again, and my eyes lock onto a table at the café across the square.
Brandon.
My Brandon. No, not mine anymore, sits with his back to me, his shoulders shaking with laughter. And across from him, leaning forward with a coy smile, is Alyssa, her blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown.
The pastry falls from my hands onto the plate with a soft thud. This can't be happening. They can't be here. In Rome. In my Rome.
I duck behind the menu, heart hammering against my ribs as I try to process what I'm seeing. Brandon is wearing the blue linen shirt I bought him for his birthday last year and Alyssa has on a flowy white sundress.
My honeymoon. My destination. Our plans.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. They've stolen my honeymoon. The tickets, the reservations, the carefully researched itinerary I spent months planning—they're using it all.
I watch in horrified fascination as Brandon reaches across the table to brush a strand of hair from Alyssa's face, his fingers lingering on her cheek in a gesture so intimate it makes me physically ill.
She captures his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm before intertwining their fingers on the tabletop.
The waiter approaches their table with two espressos and what looks like the same pastry I just dropped. Brandon says something that makes both Alyssa and the waiter laugh.
His Italian has always been terrible—he butchered even the simplest phrases when we practiced together. But now he's apparently charming waiters in Rome?
I should leave. I should quietly pay my bill, slip away, and avoid this entire situation. That would be the mature thing to do.
But as I watch Alyssa feed Brandon a bite of pastry, something snaps inside me. Before I can think better of it, I'm on my feet, tossing euros onto my table and striding across the piazza with purpose.
I'm halfway to their table when Brandon turns slightly, giving me a clear view of his profile. He looks... happy. Relaxed. None of the stress or hesitation that had marked his face in the weeks before our wedding.
He's practically glowing with contentment as he sips his espresso and gazes adoringly at the woman who was supposed to be planning our perfect day.
For a moment, I hesitate. Do I really want to do this? Create a scene in this beautiful piazza, ruin not only their morning but mine as well?
Alyssa laughs again—that cackling, practiced laugh I now realize she fakes, and I make up my mind.
With renewed confidence, I stride past them and make sure that they notice me. Then before I can second guess myself, I turn sharply.
“Hey, Alyssa! Brandon!” I call out. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Brandon looks up, his smile faltering as realization dawns on his face. Alyssa’s laughter dies abruptly, her eyes widening in shock.
“Sasha,” he stammers, scrambling to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
I want to tell him I’m on my honeymoon, but the words die on my tongue. Instead, I smile sweetly, forcing warmth into my voice. “Oh, just enjoying the sights. You know how it is.”
Alyssa fidgets in her seat, her fork clattering to the ground. I’m not really a hostile person, but seeing her like this, terrified of me, brings me some kind of satisfaction I can’t explain.
“I gotta go. Enjoy your holiday,” I say and walk away, already dialing Matteo’s number.