CHAPTER 8 – Breaking Rule Three
1293 Words
Days blurred after that.
Nothing changed, and everything did.
They still ate breakfast at the same long table. He still left most mornings in a crisp suit, phone to his ear, returning late with tension in his shoulders. The house still hummed with quiet danger.
But there were glances now.
Touches that didn’t have to happen.
A brush of fingers when he passed her a glass. His palm at the small of her back when they walked through a crowd at a charity gala he’d dragged her to. The way his eyes softened for a fraction of a second when he saw her laughing with Tommaso or listening to Rosa’s stories.
At night, she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the taste of his mouth, the feel of his breath against her throat.
Rule three of her mental list—don’t fall in love; don’t get attached; don’t confuse contract with commitment—frayed a little more each time.
It snapped the night the storm rolled in.
Rain lashed against the windows, wind howling around the corners of the house. Thunder grumbled over the sea. The old branch of a tree scratched at the glass like a restless hand.
Elena sat curled on the window seat, wrapped in a blanket, watching lightning carve bright veins through the clouds.
Storms had always unsettled her. They reminded her of hospital rooms, of machines beeping in time with the thunder while doctors spoke softly in hallways.
A crack louder than the others made her flinch.
She got up, restless, and wandered the halls.
Most of the staff had gone to their quarters. The house felt bigger, emptier, full of shadows that stretched and bent with each flash in the sky.
She found herself outside Matteo’s office without quite meaning to.
Light spilled under the door.
She hesitated, hand poised.
If you stay in this room, I will stop pretending I don’t want to touch you.
She knocked twice.
Silence.
Then, “Come in.”
He sat behind his desk, jacket off, tie loosened, files spread in front of him. The desk lamp cast warm light over his face, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness.
“You’re up late,” he observed.
“So are you,” she said. “Storm keeping you awake too?”
He glanced toward the window, where rain streaked the glass.
“Storms don’t bother me,” he said. “Accountants do.”
She snorted. “Now that is the scariest thing I’ve heard since I moved in.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re restless.”
“You can tell that from one snort?” she asked.
“I can tell it from the fact that you’re in my office at midnight with bare feet and storm eyes,” he said.
She looked down. She had, in fact, forgotten slippers.
“…Storm eyes?” she repeated.
“Like you’re waiting for something to hit,” he said. “And you’re not sure if you want it to miss or not.”
The accuracy of it made her throat tight.
“Storms remind me of… bad days,” she admitted. “Hospitals. Waiting rooms. Things I couldn’t control.”
“Tonight is not one of those days,” he said. “If the roof comes off, I’ll buy another. Sit.”
She perched on the edge of the visitor chair, hugging the blanket around her.
He watched her for a moment, then set his pen down.
“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly. “Signing.”
The question surprised her. “That’s late-night office talk.”
“I don’t do small talk,” he said. “Do you regret it?”
She thought about it.
“I regret… why I had to,” she said slowly. “I regret my brother’s choices. I regret the fact that human lives have price tags. I regret that my mother didn’t live long enough to yell at me for marrying a mafia boss.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“But signing?” she went on. “I don’t know. Ask me again when the year is over and we’re both alive.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You think that’s not guaranteed?”
“In your world?” she said. “Nothing feels guaranteed except that someone will always be cleaning blood off marble.”
His jaw twitched.
She sighed. “What about you? Regrets?”
He leaned back, fingers steepled.
“I regret letting that man get close enough to graze me,” he said. “I regret trusting people I shouldn’t have. I regret not realizing you would end up in the hallway that night.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said softly. “Do you regret… me? The contract wife. The teacher who doesn’t know how to sit quietly upstairs.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I regret that I needed you,” he said finally. “That my life is in a position where a fake wife makes my enemies hesitate and my allies feel reassured.”
Her chest tightened.
“But you?” he added. “No. I don’t regret you.”
The room felt warmer suddenly.
Thunder rolled again, closer.
She swallowed. “You said if I stayed in your office next time, you would stop pretending.”
His eyes darkened. “Yes.”
“I’m staying,” she whispered.
The air between them snapped taut.
He stood, slowly, as if he was fighting himself with each inch. When he came around the desk, the shadows from the lamp carved sharp lines along his shoulders.
“Last chance to run,” he murmured.
“I’m tired of running,” she said. “From storm thoughts. From whether I want this. From you.”
He reached out, cupping her face, thumb brushing along her cheekbone.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “This is not part of the contract. You owe me nothing here.”
She leaned into his hand. “Maybe I want something too.”
“What?” he asked, voice rough.
“You,” she said simply.
The sound he made then was almost a growl.
He pulled her up from the chair, mouth crashing onto hers with a hunger that jolted through her like lightning. This kiss was different from the one in the lounge—less restrained, more desperate.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest beneath the cotton. He walked her backward until her hips met the edge of the desk, papers rustling under her.
She broke the kiss long enough to murmur, “We’re destroying your paperwork.”
“I can make more,” he said against her lips. “There’s only one you.”
Heat pooled low in her belly.
He trailed kisses along her jaw, down her throat, each one sending sparks dancing under her skin. The lamp threw their shadows together on the wall, one shape where there had been two.
When his hands slid under the edge of her sweater, he paused.
“Say it again,” he said.
“What?” she asked, breathless.
“That you want this,” he said. “That you want me. I need to hear it.”
Her heart thudded.
“I want you,” she said, the truth spilling out easier than any lie. “I want… all of this. For however long we get.”
His eyes closed briefly, as if the words were a blessing and a curse.
“Then look at me,” he said, opening them again. “And don’t look away.”
She did.
They left the office for his bedroom, somewhere between one heartbeat and the next.
- Writer
