20. Contessa #2
I should be furious. I should be screaming about autonomy and boundaries and the fact that he’s essentially house-arresting me under the guise of being supportive.
But I’m standing in the most beautiful office I’ve ever seen, custom-built for me by a man who probably had this planned before I even knew I was pregnant, and all I can think is ‘he did this for me’.
“I hate you,” I mutter, sinking into the desk chair. It’s even more comfortable than it looks; the leather molding to my body like it was made for me. Which, technically, it was.
“No, you don’t.” He leans down, bracing his hands on the armrests, caging me in. His face is inches from mine, those hazel eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes my thighs clench. “You’re welcome, stellina.”
Before I can respond, he kisses me. His hand sliding to the back of my neck to hold me in place like a possession. I melt into it despite myself, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless and flushed, my lips swollen and tingling.
“Get to work,” he says, straightening up. “I’ll bring you lunch in a few hours. And Contessa?” He pauses at the door, looking back at me with that predatory grin. “Don’t even think about sneaking out again. The front door has a new lock. Fingerprint-activated. Your prints aren’t in the system.”
My jaw drops. “You’re keeping me prisoner?”
“I’m keeping you safe.” The door clicks shut behind him, and how dare he just walk away with the last word.
I stare at the door for a full minute after he leaves before turning on the computer and watching the screens flicker to life.
I log into my email, bracing for the inevitable flood of messages that had accumulated overnight. The inbox loads, and—fuck me—there are 147 unread emails. I feel my blood pressure spike just looking at the number.
“Deep breaths, Tessa,” I whisper to myself, cracking my knuckles. “One email at a time.”
I start with the easy ones first. Material order confirmations, shipping notifications, the weekly newsletter from a sex shop that I love to use for research. Delete, archive, mark as read. The satisfying sound of emails being cleared out makes my brain tingle in the best possible way.
The next batch is more complicated. A potential investor wants to schedule a call. My marketing team needs approval on the new campaign assets. The factory is asking about production timelines for the Immortal collection.
I fire off responses, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Yes to the call, schedule it for Thursday. The campaign looks good, but we need to highlight the gold finishes more prominently. Production should start next week, pending final quality checks.
Diving into my calendar next, I add meetings, move others around, and block out time. The purple-highlighted appointments make me smile—they look like they belong here, in this purple-themed office that’s mine-but-not-mine.
Moving over to our project management software, I wait for the dashboard to load to show the status of each product.
The Persephone is in final testing—I blush thinking about how thoroughly Matteo tested it last night. The Ares is ready for packaging design. The Zeus—our most ambitious toy yet—is still in development, with the engineering team working through some vibration issues.
I pick up the phone and dial the production line manager. He answers on the second ring.
“Contessa! Good to hear from you. We’ve been wondering where you’ve been today.”
“I’m going to be working remotely,” I say, glancing around the office that’s quickly feeling less like a prison and more like a sanctuary. “How are things on the line?”
“We’re good. The gold came in for the Immortal collection, and it looks fucking gorgeous. High-end as hell, just like you wanted.”
“Perfect. Send me photos?”
“Already in your email as soon as I said it. And the silicone molds for the Zeus are ready for your approval.”
I pull up the photos as he talks, scrolling through images of the gold accents on the toys gleaming under the factory lights. They look expensive—luxurious, even. Exactly what I envisioned when I sketched them out months ago.
“These are beautiful,” I say, genuinely impressed. “The gold is perfect. Not too yellow, not too brassy. And the weight distribution?”
“Balanced perfectly. We added a bit more heft to the base, like you suggested.”
I spend the next twenty minutes going over every detail, making notes, asking questions. By the time we hang up, my stomach is growling so loudly I’m surprised the production manager didn’t hear it.
I’m deep in the middle of drafting an email to the marketing team about the new campaign when the door opens. I don’t look up, too focused on making sure my tone is professional but not bitchy.
“One sec,” I mutter, fingers still flying. “Just finishing this email.”
The smell hits me before I see him—something rich and savory that makes my mouth water instantly. My stomach growls again, this time so loud it’s practically a roar.
“I think that’s my cue,” Matteo says, his voice a low rumble that sends heat curling through my belly.
I look up to find him standing in the doorway with a tray. On it sits a steaming bowl of what looks like pasta, a glass of water with lemon slices, and a mug of tea that smells like ginger and honey.
“Lunch break,” he announces, setting the tray on the corner of my desk. “You’ve been in here for three hours without moving.”
“Three hours?” I glance at the clock, shocked to find it’s already 12:30. “Damn, I didn’t realize.”
“That’s why I’m here.” He pulls up a chair, positioning it next to mine instead of across the desk. “To make sure you don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
I eye the pasta suspiciously. It looks amazing—silky sauce, fresh basil, what appears to be grilled chicken. But my track record with food today isn’t great.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Carbonara, but made with yogurt instead of eggs. Easier on your stomach.” He pushes the tray closer. “Eat. You need protein.”
I take a hesitant bite, bracing for nausea, but the pasta is perfect—creamy without being heavy, the sauce tangy and bright. I moan before I can stop myself.
“Good?” Matteo asks, his eyes darkening at the sound.
“So good,” I admit, taking another bite. “Did you make this?”
“Not this time. I have a chef,” he says. “But I might have given him some specific instructions.”
I take a sip of the tea, letting the ginger soothe my still-tender stomach. The water is ice cold, with just a hint of lemon. Exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
He watches me eat for a few more minutes, and before I can tell him to take a picture because it’ll last longer he’s speaking, “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Sore and kinda tired,” I admit, not meeting his eyes.
His smile turns predatory. “I can make you feel even better.”
“I’m sure you can.” I take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe my throat. “But I have a lot of work to do, so maybe you should focus on whatever criminal enterprises you have planned for the afternoon.”
“Yes, mama.” He smirks before getting up and leaving my office. Not even aware how that one word made the gamut of emotions run through me. I’m not even sure which one to settle on.