Chapter 8
The mistake was fixed. I didn't want any more problems weighing on me. We've already started painting, and I'm inspecting everything up close to make sure it's really the color I requested. And yes, it's turning out perfectly.
It's almost late afternoon when a guy shows up asking for me. I go over to him, and he hands me a box. Strange. I sign for it and stand there staring at the object in my hands. It's just Mattia and me here. He walks over and says.
“Why don't you open it?”
“I don't know who sent it.”
“We'll find out when you open it. Could be a secret admirer.” I look at him and say.
“I don't have any of those. Well, I'll open it.”
When I lift the lid off the box, there's a rose with a note—no sender's name—and it says “Hi, my kitten.” I go pale and feel sick. Mattia catches me, takes the note from my hand and reads it. It doesn't mean anything to him, but to me it does.
“Hey, what happened? Come on, sit here.”
I sit in a chair he pulls over for me and drink the water he offers, but he keeps pressing.
“Who sent you this? And don't tell me you don't know—from the way you reacted, it doesn't seem like anything good.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but it's personal, and I don't want to talk about it. I hope you'll respect that.”
“Of course. I shouldn't meddle, but you went pale. Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes, thank you. Well, it's time to head home. We'll meet here again tomorrow morning.”
“I'll walk you to your car.”
“You don't need to.”
“Yes, I do. Let's go.”
What a stubborn man. But there's no point arguing.
He grabs my purse from the corner where I left it, hands it to me, and we head out.
Once we're outside, I notice him looking around.
He opens the car door for me, motions for me to get in, and closes it.
Once I'm inside, he heads back to the restaurant.
I start the engine but stay there watching him.
He's holding the box in one hand and the note in the other.
I'm really scared. It had been months since I'd seen my ex-fiancé—until he showed up outside the restaurant on Saturday.
And today he sent me a flower. I know it's him, from the nickname he gave me when we were together.
Given our turbulent breakup and how hard he took it, I thought he'd never leave me alone.
But he disappeared for months, and I was moving on with my life just fine—until now.
I spend the whole drive thinking about this.
When I get home, I run inside. I need a good, relaxing bath.
I go into the bathroom, turn on the water, adjust the temperature, and let the tub fill.
I take off my clothes, and as soon as it's full, I sink in and stay there for at least an hour—or until my mother comes to the door and knocks twice.
“Come in, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. Did something happen?” My mother knows me so well, so I decide to tell her.
“I got a rose with a note from him today.”
“I'm sorry, honey, but don't let this get to you. I know it seems hard, but try to focus on your work and put this behind you.”
“I'll try, Mom. Thank you so much.”
“Get out of there before the water gets cold. I'm almost done with dinner.” She gives me a smile and closes the door, leaving me alone.
My mother is right. I can't let him get to me like this.
I've already suffered so much. I managed to get out of our relationship because it was destroying me, and now that we're no longer together, I can't let him do whatever he wants.
And I won't. I was always weak, but today I realized I'm stronger than I ever thought.
I'm going to get through this, once again, and I won't let myself be manipulated. Not anymore.
With that decided, I get out of the bathtub, dry off, put on comfortable pajamas, and head downstairs to have dinner and chat with my mom and sister.
These are the moments I love most, when we sit at the table for our meal and talk about everything.
My mom doesn't work and loves to cook, so every day we have something different.
She's of Italian descent and makes delicious food—like today, pasta with marinara sauce.
Her seasoning is amazing, and the food, as she always says, is made with love and care.
That's why Mattia doesn't surprise me all that much.
I have someone similar at home—someone who gives me lots of love, affection, and respect.
That arrogant Italian, on the other hand, just keeps making me more fascinated by him every day, but I don't want to get involved. Right now, fear is winning.