20. Contessa
Contessa
Iwake up choking on bile, my stomach twisting like someone’s wringing it out with both hands. The nausea hits so fast I barely have time to register where I am before I’m stumbling out of bed, naked and disoriented, making a desperate dash for the bathroom.
I don’t even make it to the toilet before the first heave hits. I double over the sink, gripping the marble counter so hard my knuckles go white, and everything comes up in one violent surge.
“Fuck,” I gasp, spitting and retching. My eyes water as another wave hits, harder this time, my body convulsing with the force of it.
I’m so busy puking my guts out that I don’t hear Matteo enter until I feel his presence behind me—solid and warm, his hand gathering my hair at the nape of my neck while the other steadies my hip.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I want to tell him to fuck off, to leave me alone in my disgusting misery, but all I manage is a pitiful groan before another heave bends me forward.
He holds me through it, one big hand keeping my hair out of the splash zone while I empty what feels like every organ in my body into his pristine sink.
When the spasms finally subside, I’m left trembling, my skin clammy with sweat, tears streaming down my face. I must look like absolute death, but Matteo doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for a washcloth, wets it with cool water, and gently wipes my face.
“This is so fucking humiliating,” I croak, my throat raw from stomach acid.
“It’s morning sickness,” he says simply, like that explains everything. Like puking in front of him at—I glance at the digital clock on the counter—5:43 in the fucking morning is somehow normal now.
I try to stand up straight, but my knees wobble dangerously. Matteo’s arm slides around my waist, solid as iron, keeping me upright.
“Brush,” he commands, squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush and handing it to me.
I take it with a shaky hand, desperate to get the acid taste out of my mouth.
While I brush, he disappears briefly, returning with a plush gray robe that he drapes over my shoulders.
The fabric is obscenely soft against my naked skin, and I realize with a jolt that it’s new.
It’s not his, but clearly meant for me. Another thing he’s bought without asking.
“Better?” he asks when I finish rinsing.
I nod weakly, unable to summon the energy for words. My body feels like it’s been hollowed out with a rusty spoon, and the room is still spinning slightly at the edges.
“Sorry,” I croak, mortified. This is the second time I’ve puked in front of him, and somehow it’s even worse than the first. At least the first time we weren’t in the aftermath of him double-stuffing me like a depraved Oreo.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, reaching past me to flush the sink out with water. “It’s normal.”
I want to tell him there’s nothing normal about this. Waking up in Matteo Marino’s bed with morning sickness from carrying his baby doesn’t scream an ounce of normal but I’m too busy trying not to cry from the sheer embarrassment of it all.
Why does he have to be so sweet and also so damn demanding? It’s playing table tennis with my emotions.
I lean against the counter, trying to regain some composure while Matteo bustles around the kitchen like he’s auditioning for a role as the world’s most terrifying househusband.
After my spectacular morning puke session, he practically carried me downstairs and deposited me at the kitchen island like a fragile package.
“You need to eat something,” he says, sliding a plate of dry toast and a cup of ginger tea in front of me. “Small bites. It’ll help settle your stomach.”
I eye the toast suspiciously. “I just emptied everything I’ve eaten since grade school, and you want me to eat?”
“Trust me.” He brushes my hair back from my face with a gentleness that still surprises me. “The nausea gets worse when your stomach is empty.”
I take a reluctant nibble of toast, expecting my body to reject it immediately, but the bland carbs actually seem to calm the churning in my gut. Matteo watches me eat with an intensity that should be creepy, but somehow isn’t. Maybe I’m having a case of temporary insanity.
“I need to go to the office today,” I say between careful sips of tea. “I have meetings that I can’t miss.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “You were just sick.”
“Morning sickness. You said it yourself—it’s normal.” I gesture at the toast. “Look, I’m eating. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t respond, just turns to the stove where he’s making himself some complicated egg dish that smells amazing and horrifying at the same time. The silence stretches between us, tense and loaded.
“Matteo,” I try again, “I can’t just…stop living my life because I’m pregnant. I have a company to run.”
“I’m aware,” he says, his back still to me. “Eat your toast.”
I roll my eyes at his retreating form, but finish the toast anyway. To my surprise, it does help. By the time he sits down with his own breakfast, I’m feeling almost human again.
He eats methodically, checking his phone between bites, apparently content to let the subject drop. Which is suspicious as hell because Matteo never drops anything.
When he finishes, he stands abruptly, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. “I need to take care of some business. There’s more tea in the pot if you want it.”
And then he’s gone, striding out of the kitchen without another word about my plans for the day. It’s so unlike him that I’m momentarily stunned. No demands? No laying down the law? No “you’re staying home where I can keep an eye on you, stellina”?
I don’t trust it for a second.
Still, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I slip upstairs as soon as I hear his office door close, moving as quietly as possible to the bedroom.
I shower quickly before throwing on a simple black dress, applying minimal makeup to hide the lingering pallor from my morning sickness, and gather my bag. God, I hope I can make a sneaky exit.
I creep down the stairs, wincing at every creak, and make it to the front door without hearing a sound from his office.
My fingers are on the doorknob when his voice cuts through the silence.
“Stellina.”
Fuck.
I freeze, my back to him, hand still on the door. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear him…
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
I turn slowly, plastering what I hope is an innocent smile on my face. Matteo stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a predator who’s just spotted his prey trying to escape.
“I was just going to grab some fresh air,” I lie.
“Through the front door? Without telling me?”
I shrug, trying to play it casual. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
His mouth twitches but it’s not quite a smile. “Come with me.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just turns and walks down the hallway toward a part of the house I haven’t explored yet.
I hesitate for a second. I genuinely consider bolting out the front door just to prove a point but the memory of his hand on my throat last night makes my pussy clench in a way that’s absolutely fucking infuriating.
So I follow him, because apparently my body is a traitor and my brain has decided to take a sabbatical.
He leads me past his office, which I’ve seen before—dark wood, leather, the kind of room that screams “I’m a scary man who probably orders hits over coffee.
” But he doesn’t stop there. He keeps walking to a door at the end of the hallway that I’ve never noticed before.
When he pushes it open and steps aside, I almost trip over my own feet.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
The room is nothing like the rest of his house. Where everything else is dark and masculine and smells like expensive cologne and power, this room is...mine. Or at least, it’s clearly designed to be.
The desk is massive—white oak, not black leather—and it’s surrounded by three curved monitors mounted on sleek silver arms. There’s a whiteboard against the far wall, pristine and untouched, with a tray of colored markers lined up neatly beside it.
A plush white chair sits behind the desk, the kind that costs more than my rent, and there’s a matching chaise lounge against the window with throw pillows in shades of deep purple.
A glass shelf along one wall holds prototypes of my toys—the Immortal collection, arranged like art pieces under soft lighting. A laptop, my notebooks, even my favorite coffee mug—the one that says “RAGING WITCH” in sparkly letters—are all sitting on the desk like they’ve always been there.
The whole room smells of apples and cinnamon. There are fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the desk—peonies, my absolute favorite—and the curtains are sheer lavender instead of the heavy black ones that dominate the rest of the house.
It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, because it means he planned this. He built me an office. In his house. Like I fucking live here.
“Welcome to the office,” Matteo says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His voice is casual, but his eyes are watching me like a hawk. “You can do all your business here.”
I turn to face him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What the fuck is this?”
“This,” he says, gesturing around the room, “is where you’ll be working from now on.”
I open my mouth, ready to unleash every ounce of outrage I possess, but he holds up a hand.
“This is not up for negotiation, Contessa.” His mouth curves into that slow, dangerous smile that makes my knees weak. “But by all means, if you want to argue with me about it, let’s. Because I love it.”
“You’re insane,” I say, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Yes,” he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “And you’re staying here. Where I know you’re safe. Where you can work in comfort without running yourself into the ground.”