Chapter 7- A Billionaire’s Girlfriend, If Only It Were That Simple
Matteo
I'm in the middle of a meeting with investors when my phone vibrates against the boardroom table. I glance down, expecting to see Franco's name—he's been texting all morning about wine selections for tonight's dinner at the hotel. Instead, I see "Sasha Moretti" lighting up my screen.
My heart rate kicks up a notch.
I'd resigned myself to the likelihood that she wouldn't call after disappearing from my bed this morning.
Women rarely leave before I wake—usually it's the opposite, with me slipping away at dawn while they sleep. The role reversal was unexpected, as was the pang of disappointment I felt upon finding her gone.
"Excuse me," I tell the investors, rising from my chair. "I need to take this. Giovanni can walk you through the rest of the projections."
I don't wait for their response before stepping out into the hallway, my thumb already swiping to answer.
"Sasha," I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
"About that gala," she starts, her voice tight with an emotion I can't quite place. "Is the invitation still open?"
I lean against the wall, momentarily thrown by her abrupt question. "Yes, of course. But I thought—"
"I've changed my mind," she interrupts. "I'd like to go. With you. As your date."
Something's off. The confident woman from last night, who moaned my name as she came apart in my arms, sounds delicate now, almost frantic. Her words come too quickly, her breathing audible through the phone.
"Sasha, are you alright?" I keep my voice low, concerned. "You sound..."
"I'm fine," she insists, but there's a tremor in her voice that suggests otherwise. "Just excited about the gala. It sounds like fun."
"It's not until this weekend," I remind her gently. "We don't need to decide right now."
There's a pause, then a shaky exhale. "I know. I just... I wanted to let you know I'd changed my mind. Before you asked someone else."
The vulnerability in those last words tugs at something in my chest. "There is no one else," I assure her, surprising myself with how true it feels. "The invitation was for you specifically."
Another pause, longer this time. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier. "Thank you. I appreciate that."
"Sasha," I press, unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong. "Did something happen? After you left this morning?"
"Nothing important," she says, but the forced lightness in her tone tells me otherwise. "Just a small reminder that Rome is smaller than I thought."
Before I can ask what she means, she continues, "So, the gala. What should I wear? When should I be ready? Will there be dancing?"
The rapid-fire questions prove my suspicions. Something’s wrong.
“Can I see you tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” she replies after a while.
Does she regret what happened? Is that it? Then why would she accept to go to the gala? These questions swarm my head, and it’s so frustrating that I don’t have the answers to them.
Fuck! This is what I was avoiding. Unnecessary complications.
“I’ll see you on Saturday. Pick me up at seven,” Sasha says and before I can reply, she hangs up.
I stare at my phone for a long moment after she disconnects, trying to make sense of what just happened. The abrupt shift from her morning disappearance to her sudden enthusiasm about the gala has left me thoroughly confused.
I tap out a quick text: Is everything really okay?
Three dots appear immediately, pulsing as she types, then disappears, then reappears. Finally, her response comes through: Everything's fine. Just had an unexpected encounter. Nothing to worry about.
An unexpected encounter? In a city of nearly three million people, what kind of encounter would rattle her enough to change her mind about attending a formal event with a man she barely knows?
I should be pleased. After all, I wanted her to come to the gala. But something about this sudden reversal feels wrong. Like she's running toward me to escape something else.
I send another text: If you want to talk about it, I'm here.
Her reply is almost instant: Nothing to talk about. Looking forward to Saturday.
The dismissal is clear, but I can't shake my concern. I try one more time: Dinner tonight? Just to talk. No pressure.
This time, the dots appear and disappear several times, as if she's writing and rewriting her response. When it finally comes through, it's frustratingly brief: Can't tonight. Already have plans. Saturday will be perfect.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, more confused than before. Women usually aren't this complicated for me.
They're either interested or they're not.
They either stay or they go.
Sasha Moretti seems determined to defy every pattern I've established over the years.
Giovanni pokes his head out into the hallway. "The Belgians are getting restless," he warns. "And Silverman is asking about the zoning permits again."
"I'll be right there," I promise, straightening my tie and pushing thoughts of Sasha aside. I have a business to run, investors to please, and a hotel renovation to oversee. Whatever mystery surrounds Sasha Moretti will have to wait.
But as I return to the boardroom, plastering on my professional smile, my mind keeps drifting back to her.
By late afternoon, the meeting finally concludes with handshakes and promises of updated proposals.
As soon as the investors clear out, I loosen my tie and check my phone again. No new messages from Sasha.
I tap out another text: Just checking in. Hope your day improved.
I wait, watching the screen, but there's no immediate response. No typing indicator. Nothing.
"Problem?" Giovanni asks, gathering his notes from the table.
"No," I say, perhaps too quickly.
I hate this feeling.
The evening of the gala finally arrives, after days of anticipation, nervousness and a myriad of emotions I still can’t make out. I adjust my bow tie in the car's mirror for the third time, a nervous habit I thought I'd outgrown years ago.
"We're here, sir," my driver announces, pulling up to the address Sasha provided.
I check my watch: 6:55 PM. Exactly on time, though I've been circling the block for fifteen minutes, wrestling with emotions I'm unaccustomed to feeling. Frustration. Confusion. Anticipation.
For three days, I've heard almost nothing from her. My texts received one-word replies or none at all. My calls went straight to voicemail.
The one time she answered, I could hear voices in the background—female laughter, music—before she hurriedly explained she was "out with friends" and would "see me Saturday."
By Friday, I'd nearly convinced myself to call and cancel. I don't chase women; they chase me. I don't agonize over unanswered messages or analyze the tone of brief responses. I certainly don't pace my office, phone in hand, debating whether to try again.
Yet here I am, outside her apartment, palms slightly damp against my tuxedo, wondering what version of Sasha I'll encounter tonight.
"Wait here," I tell the driver, stepping out into the golden evening light.
I press the buzzer beside "Apt. 3" and wait, adjusting my cufflinks.
No answer.
I press again, longer this time. Still nothing.
A flicker of irritation sparks in my chest. Is this her way of canceling? Leaving me standing on her doorstep like some lovesick teenager?
I pull out my phone, ready to call her, when the heavy wooden door swings open.
And there she stands.
All the frustration, all the confusion of the past three days evaporates.
Sasha Moretti is a vision in deep burgundy silk that clings to every curve before cascading to the floor in liquid waves.
The neckline dips just low enough to reveal the elegant sweep of her collarbone, while the back plunges dramatically, exposing a stretch of creamy skin that makes my fingers itch to trace its path.
Her hair, usually falling in loose waves, has been swept up into an intricate arrangement that showcases the graceful line of her neck. Diamond drops glitter at her ears, catching the light with every subtle movement.
But it's her eyes that capture me completely—smoky and dark-lashed, regarding me with a mixture of apprehension and something else that might be desire.
"You're here," she says softly, sounding almost surprised.
"Of course I'm here," I reply, equally soft. "I said I would be."
A moment of silence stretches between us, charged with unspoken questions. Then she smiles—a genuine smile that reaches her eyes and makes something tighten in my chest.
"You look..." I search for the right word, finding every option inadequate. "Stunning doesn't begin to cover it mio dolcezza."
A blush rises to her cheeks. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself." Her eyes travel the length of my tuxedo, lingering in a way that makes my blood warm. "I've never seen anyone fill out a tux quite like you do."
I offer her my arm. "Shall we?"
She hesitates briefly before slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow. The simple contact, even through layers of fabric, sends electricity racing across my skin.
In the car, she sits close enough that I can smell her perfume—something subtle and intoxicating. Her knee occasionally brushes mine as the car navigates Rome's winding streets, each touch a small torment.
"You've been distant," I say finally, unable to maintain the pretense any longer. "After that morning... after your call. I wasn't sure what to think."
She turns to the window, the city lights playing across her profile. "I needed some time," she says carefully. "Everything happened so fast."
"And now?" I ask, my voice low.
She faces me then, her eyes searching mine. "Now I'm here," she says simply. "With you."
It's not a complete answer, but it's enough for tonight. I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. "And I'm very glad you are."
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence, our fingers intertwined on the leather seat between us.