Chapter 13
Harlow
A fine beam of sunlight slices across my face, dragging me out of sleep. My eyes flutter open, squinting against the harsh morning light. I forgot to close the curtains last night.
With a quiet sigh, I shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling as my mind catches up to where I am. Fragments of the previous night resurface, the party, the stalker, discovering Dante has a son, meeting him. The unspoken tension, the weight of something unnameable pressing between us. After my encounter with Mattia, Dante had led me upstairs, showing me to his bedroom, but I refused to stay there with him.
This arrangement is nothing more than a strategic alliance. There’s no need for pretence behind closed doors. It’s preferable this way, neater, more straightforward, and far safer.
He hadn’t protested. He had simply regarded me in silence, his expression inscrutable, before offering a curt nod. Moments later, one of his men delivered my bags, and I had retreated into the solitude of the bathroom. I let the scalding water wash away the exhaustion woven deep into my muscles, the steam unfurling around me like a cocoon.
The rest is a blur. Slipping into my pyjamas. The cool press of the pillow against my skin. The pull of sleep, deep, immediate, absolute.
Now, I glance at the digital clock mounted near the television. Six-thirty a.m.
With a quiet exhale, I push back the covers and sit up, stretching my arms above my head. Mornings have never been a struggle for me, I’ve always been an early riser. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I rise smoothly, running a hand over the sheets to straighten them before making my way to the bathroom.
Inside, I retrieve my toiletry bag from the counter where I left it last night. The guest bathroom is impeccably stocked with neatly arranged essentials, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, even a curated selection of luxury skincare products. Likely meant for guests.
I take my time under the hot water, allowing it to chase away the last remnants of sleep as I work shampoo through my hair, scrubbing my skin until it tingles. Steam curls around me as I step out, wrapping a towel around my body and another around my hair.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, sharp features, skin slightly flushed from the heat.
I reach for my skincare products, methodically massaging cream into my skin, smoothing lotion over my arms and legs. Taking care of myself is routine, a small ritual of control in a world that offers so little of it.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I let the towels drop, reaching for fresh lingerie, black lace, delicate, barely-there. The fabric clings to my skin as I slip it on, followed by a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg jeans that drape elegantly over my frame. I shrug on a structured blazer, its sharp lines adding an effortless polish to the ensemble. Sliding my feet into nude stilettos, I move back to the mirror, running a brush through my damp hair before blow-drying it straight. A few drops of oil add a sleek, polished sheen. Makeup is next, flawless foundation, a touch of bronzer to sculpt, mascara darkening my lashes with a single sweep. A swipe of nude lipstick.
Subtle.
Polished.
Precise.
A final veil of perfume, and I’m ready.
I step out of the room, the soft click of my heels echoing in the quiet hallway. Unfamiliar walls stretch before me, a stark indication that I don’t yet know my way around this house. But the distant murmur of voices drifts through the silence, guiding me like a thread through a maze.
I follow the sound, as I move through the corridors, taking in the surroundings. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something faintly sweet lingers in the air, growing stronger as I approach.
Finally, I step inside what I assume is the kitchen. Dante is standing near the counter with Mario, their conversation pausing the moment they notice me.
The kitchen staff moves efficiently around them, but I barely notice, because Dante is watching me.
Not just watching, devouring.
His gaze moves over me in a slow sweep, as if he’s committing every detail to memory, as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist. The quiet hum of voices, the clatter of dishes, the faint aroma of coffee, none of it registers. There is only him. Only the way his dark eyes drag over the sharp lines of my blazer, the way they linger at my waist, the subtle curve of my hip, the way my heels add to my height, forcing him to take me in from a new perspective.
The heat in his stare is slow burning, all consuming. A quiet, unspoken claim.
And yet, I refuse to let it shake me.
I hold his stare for a lingering beat before shifting my attention.
“Good morning, everyone.”
A subtle tension ripples through the room, almost imperceptible, but the maids exchange quick glances, attuned to the charged atmosphere. As I step forward, Dante finally speaks, his voice authoritative and unquestionable.
“This is Harlow,”
he announces.
“My fiancée. I expect you to treat her accordingly.”
There is no uncertainty in his tone, no room for interpretation. His words carry weight, settling over me like an unspoken decree. I don’t react, keeping my expression impassive. Instead, I offer a small nod as the maids acknowledge me, their gazes flicking between us, assessing, understanding.
One of them, an older woman, steps forward, offering a warm smile.
“Benvenuta, signorina. I am Bianca.”
Her voice is gentle, tinged with warmth, yet there is a quiet strength behind it, an authority that suggests she is someone of importance among the staff.
I meet her gaze, offering a slight nod in acknowledgment.
“Grazie, Bianca.”
Nothing more is said, but there is a silent agreement between us, before the conversation naturally shifts and the household resumes its rhythm.
Breakfast is being served in the dining room. Dante, Mario, and I make our way inside, where the mansion staff moves efficiently, setting plates before us with careful attention. Dante pulls out my chair before I sit.
One of the women steps forward, her posture poised yet respectful.
“What would you like to drink, signorina?”
“A cappuccino. Thank you.”
My response is smooth, though I can still feel the weight of Dante’s presence beside me.
She nods before moving away, seamlessly blending back into the tranquil flow of the residence. It isn’t long before she returns, setting down our drinks.
I wrap my fingers around the warm porcelain, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly brewed cappuccino.
Across the table, Mario’s phone buzzes, breaking the subdued atmosphere. He glances at the screen, his expression shifting subtly.
“Scusatemi,”
he mutters, rising from his seat.
“I need to take this.”
And just like that, it’s only Dante and me.
The air between us shifts, thickening, an unspoken current weaving its way through the silence. The room, once filled with the quiet hum of movement, now feels impossibly still.
I stir my cappuccino, watching him from the corner of my eye before finally breaking the silence.
“So, you have a son.”
My voice is intentional.
“You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning?”
Dante’s jaw tightens, a flicker of tension ghosting across his expression.
“It’s no secret, but few are aware of my son. I don’t make a habit of exposing him to the world, and I’d prefer to keep it that way, for now, at least.”
I study him for a moment, taking in the quiet protectiveness that laces his words. It’s instinctual, deeply ingrained, a shield forged from necessity. And I understand why. A child in this world... changes everything.
I exhale slowly, tilting my head as I meet his gaze.
“And his mother?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, his eyes darkening with something far more dangerous than irritation.
“Is she in the picture?” I press.
His expression turns to stone. “Why?”
I hold his stare, unwavering.
“Because if we are to live under the same roof, I believe it is only reasonable that I be informed whether the child’s mother is present in his life.”
His grip tightens on the armrest of his chair, knuckles flexing as if restraining something lethal.
“She plays no role in his life, nor will she ever.”
His voice is even, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it.
“And if you have any sense, you will never bring her up again.”
I don’t look away, but the weight of his warning is suffocating, thick with the promise of violence.
“The mere mention of her stirs the urge to erase that wretched woman from existence.”
I catch the hatred burning in his eyes and choose not to press further, though I would be lying if I claimed I didn’t crave more details. But I shouldn’t care, I remind myself. So, I steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Has Mattia had breakfast?”
I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“No.”
Dante exhales.
“He’s still asleep. He was up far too late last night.”
He pauses briefly.
“I anticipated he’d struggle to wake this morning.” He makes a move to rise.
“I’ll go check on him.”
Before I can think, my hand lifts, fingertips grazing his forearm, a fleeting, instinctive touch. A spark ignites where our skin meets, a buzz of electricity, humming beneath the surface. The contact is brief, yet it lingers in the air between us, charged and undeniable.
“Let me go.”
My voice is softer now, yet steady.
“It’s only reasonable we get to know each other.”
Dante stills. And so do I.
For a second, neither of us moves, both caught off guard by the unexpected contact. But I don’t dwell on it. I drop my hand, stand, and leave the room, feeling his eyes follow me.
Upstairs, I slow my steps, glancing at the doors until I spot one with a piece of paper taped to it.
Do Not Disturb, scrawled in uneven, childish handwriting.
I rap softly on the door, met with nothing but silence.
I try again.
A faint, muffled voice stirs from within.
“Five more minutes.”
A small smirk tugs at my lips. I push the door open.
Inside, Mattia is still curled up in bed, tangled in the sheets, one arm dangling over the edge, his face buried in the pillow. The room is dim, the curtains drawn, casting shadows over the walls.
“Can I come in?”
Mattia cracks one eye open, barely awake, then lets out a small sigh.
“I guess so.”
He mutters before closing his eyes again.
I walk toward the window, pulling the curtains open. Sunlight floods the room instantly. Mattia grunts unhappily, burrowing deeper into the blanket.
“You need to get dressed and come down for breakfast,”
I say, folding my arms.
“You’ll be late for school if you linger any longer.”
“I don’t wanna go to school.”
I arch a brow.
“Yeah, well, you only have a few days left. That doesn’t mean you get to skip them.”
He peeks at me from under the covers, his small face scrunched in defiance.
“You’re not my mother.”
The words are sharp, but I don’t let them affect me. I’ve dealt with worse.
“I’m well aware,”
I reply smoothly.
“If I were, I’m quite certain I’d recall the experience of bringing you into this world.”
Mattia wrinkles his nose, but at least he’s sitting up now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
I exhale, lowering myself slightly so we’re at eye level.
“I know this isn’t easy, for either of us. But trust me, Mattia, you’re not the only one struggling with this.”
My voice is calm. I pause, weighing my next words carefully.
“If I’m going to marry your father, we’ll have to find a way to coexist. There’s no sense in making this more difficult than it has to be.”
I hold his gaze, firm yet gentle, allowing the words to settle between us.
“I think you’re a remarkable little boy, Mattia, and I’d truly like the chance to know you.”
He frowns.
“I’m not little. I’m eight.”
I smirk.
“Eight is still little.”
His scowl deepens, but there’s no real bite to it, just quiet defiance.
“Go get ready,”
I say, straightening.
“Wash up, get dressed, and then we shall go down for breakfast.”
Mattia drags himself out of bed, moving sluggishly toward the bathroom. As he reaches the door, I ask.
“Do you need help?”
He shoots me a look.
“I’m a big boy. I don’t need you to dress me.”
I lift my hands in concession.
“Very well.”
As he disappears into the bathroom, I take a brief look around. The room is tidier than I expected for a child his age, though the bed remains rumpled from sleep. I move over, straightening the sheets and smoothing out the creases. Nearby, a collection of toy cars is lined up, and on his desk, a few footballs rest alongside scattered trading cards featuring famous players.
When Mattia steps out of the bathroom, still clad in his pyjamas but noticeably more alert, he heads straight for his closet, rifling through for his school uniform. I observe as he falters momentarily, casting a glance in my direction.
“Would you rather I head downstairs, or remain here until you're ready?”
I inquire.
He looks at me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze, vulnerability, perhaps.
“Whatever.”
He mumbles before slipping into the closet and shutting the door behind him.
I take that as my cue to stay.
A few minutes later, he steps out in his neatly pressed uniform, but his tie is crooked, the knot barely holding together. I sigh, shaking my head.
“Can I fix that?”
He wavers before nodding slightly. I step forward, my fingers working swiftly to adjust the tie, making sure it sits properly.
“There,”
I say, stepping back.
“Now you actually look presentable.”
Mattia breathes out harshly, a quiet huff of resistance, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he grabs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, making his way toward the door with sluggish determination.
Then, just as he reaches the threshold, he halts abruptly.
“Wait, I forgot my training bag.”
I extend my hand.
“Let me hold that,”
I say smoothly.
“Go grab your gear.”
He hands his backpack over without hesitation and dashes back into the room. A few seconds later, he returns.
“Alright, let’s go,”
I say, leading the way downstairs.
As we walk, I decide to make conversation.
“So… soccer, huh?”
Mattia immediately scrunches his nose, his expression nothing short of offended.
“It’s football.”
His voice is gruff, edged with reluctance, like he doesn’t want to engage but also doesn’t want to be rude.
I bite back a smile.
“Right. Football.”
He gives me a look, unimpressed.
“Are you any good?”
His response is instant.
“Obviously.”
I smirk.
“Confident. I like that.”
By the time we step into the dining room, Dante remains seated at the table, coffee in hand, his gaze lifting as we enter. His eyes flicker from Mattia to me, then lower, settling on the sight of his son’s school bag in my grasp.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle yet there, a flicker of thought he doesn’t voice.
Mattia, oblivious or perhaps indifferent, drops his football gear onto the floor with a soft thud before sliding into his seat. I follow suit, keenly aware of the weight of Dante’s gaze lingering on me the entire time.
“Finish your breakfast promptly,”
Dante instructs, his voice authoritative.
“Your driver is waiting outside, and you’re already pressing the limits of time.”
He leans back slightly, fixing Mattia with a pointed look.
“I distinctly advised you against staying up so late last night.”
Mattia mutters something under his breath, barely audible, but offers no real protest. Instead, he picks up his fork and begins eating, his movements weighed down by lingering exhaustion.
I pick up my coffee, taking a slow sip, watching their interaction.
The tension between Dante and me lingers, dense and unspoken, weaving itself into the silence. I feel it in the subtle rhythm of his fingers tapping against his cup, in the way his gaze flickers over me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“You must eat as well.”
He says at last, his jaw tight, as if the words escape against his will, reluctant, yet inevitable.
I don’t acknowledge the remark, nor do I push back. Instead, I simply reach for a croissant, tearing off a small piece.
Across the table, Mattia shoves the last bite of food into his mouth before rising, grabbing his bags in one swift motion. Without thinking, I stand as well, the movement instinctive, automatic.
“I’ll accompany him.” I say.
Dante’s brows lift slightly.
“And why is that?”
I offer a casual shrug.
“It would only be practical for me to know where your son attends school, wouldn’t it?”
He reclines in his chair, regarding me coolly.
“You’d be far better served using your time to plan the wedding.”
I release a dry, mirthless laugh.
“You have people for that. Better yet, you could call it off entirely. It isn’t too late, you know.”
His response is immediate.
“I don’t believe I will.”
I smirk.
“Exactly what I expected.”
Dante exhales, his gaze darkening.
“You’ll have two additional cars trailing you.”
I arch a brow.
“And why is that?”
His expression sharpens, his voice dropping to something hard and absolute.
“Don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten about your stalker. I have no intention of taking unnecessary risks until that bastard is found. You are not to go anywhere unaccompanied. Is that understood?”
A chill prickles at my skin, but I nod. There’s no point in arguing.
And with that, I turn and follow Mattia out, forcing my mind onto anything but the weight of Dante’s words.
Firstly this wedding is a sham. Just business.
I repeat it to myself, hoping that if I say it enough, it’ll sink in.
And the stalker, there’s no reason to fight him on that. If anything, knowing I’ll have people watching out for me is a relief. Hopefully, he lost my trail in Palermo and remained there, though it’s unlikely. Still, I cling to that hope, because the thought of someone watching me, following my every move, sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine.
Outside, the driver stands by the car, already holding the door open. Mattia climbs in first, and I follow, the vehicle enclosing us as it shuts behind me.
As the car departs the estate, I glance at Mattia. He’s staring out the window.
“You’re not fond of school?”
He offers a nonchalant shrug.
“It’s fine.”
Yet, something in his tone suggests otherwise. I don’t push. Instead, I lean back, watching as the city passes by outside. When we finally pull up to the school, Mattia moves to open the door, but then stops.
“Don’t get out,”
he says quickly, eyes darting to me.
“I don’t need a mommy to kiss me goodbye.”
I blink, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone.
“As you wish.”
I say simply.
Mattia falters for just a second before grabbing his bags and stepping out. As the car pulls away, I watch him disappear into the building. Something stirs in my chest. A strange, unfamiliar ache.
I don’t understand it.
But I do know one thing.
That little boy just did something to me, and I don’t know how to make it stop.