**MATEO'S POV**

Isabella.

That girl has no idea what she does to me.

Since that night in the Velvet Room, she’s lived rent-free in my head. Every curve, every gasp, every time she looked up at me like I was the only thing that existed. When I learned she was Nathan’s daughter, it felt like fate handed me the perfect excuse to pull her close. To keep her. To make sure no one else ever touched what was already mine.

I went to her apartment that day telling myself it was just concern—she looked wrecked at work, pale and unsteady. But the second I saw her in that towel, hair dripping, skin flushed… all restraint vanished. I told myself she was too drunk that first night to remember me. That’s why she never brought it up. That’s why I never pushed. I wanted her to come to me on her own. Wanted her to crave it the way I did.

Dang it. I shouldn’t have gone.

Shouldn’t have looked at her body.

Shouldn’t have touched her.

Her soft, wet heat under my tongue. Her lips parting on a moan. Those wide eyes locked on mine while she came apart.

I was asking too much and I knew it. Seem I always had Oliver's Twist after all.

I’ve barely slept since. Every night I watch the feeds—her office camera, the hallway ones, even the building entrance. I sit in this chair and stare like a goddamn addict. Today was worse. Seeing her talk to one of the junior analysts, laughing at something he said… it clawed at me. I don’t even know the guy’s name. Doesn’t matter. No one gets to make her smile like that except me.

Then she left her office. Walked down the hall for water. My dispenser on her floor had been empty for days—I’d meant to have it fixed. She stopped at the main one. Filled her cup. Drank. Filled it again.

That’s when he appeared behind her.

Ethan.

His hand landed on her ass like he had the right.

Rage hit me so fast my vision tunneled. That perfect curve belonged to me. Only me.

I watched her flinch. Watched her try to step away. Watched him crowd her against the wall, whispering something that made her face drain of color. She looked terrified. Small. Like she knew exactly what he was capable of.

I slammed my palm on the desk.

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

I grabbed my phone. Dialed her extension. It rang out. Dialed again.

Finally she answered, voice small. “Hello, Mr…?”

“Get to my office. Now.”

I kept the feed open while she hurried down the hall. Derrick watched her go, that smug tilt to his mouth. I zoomed in. Couldn’t read his expression clearly, but I didn’t need to. I knew men like him.

A knock. I barked for her to enter.

Aisha stepped in first. “Sir, you have the board meeting in an hour, and—”

“I know. I’ll handle it.” I waved her out.

She gave a quick bow and a professional smile, then paused at the door. Isabella was approaching. They exchanged a few quiet words—Aisha said something that made Isabella laugh. A real laugh. Soft. Bright. The sound hit me like sunlight after weeks of dark.

Then she was inside.

She stood in front of my desk, eyes glued to the floor. Hands trembling at her sides. That cheap dress clung where the water had soaked through. Shoes scuffed. Hair falling out of its tie. She looked fragile. Exhausted. Nothing like the woman who’d begged under me days ago.

It hurt to see her like this.

“What happened to your dress?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.

She hesitated. Eyes darted everywhere but my face.

“I… I went to get water. Almost tripped on the way back. It spilled.”

Bullshit.

“You almost tripped.”

She swallowed hard.

“I’m talking to you, Angioletto.”

The nickname slipped out sharper than I meant. She flinched.

“There was no water in my office dispenser,” she tried again. “I got thirsty. Tripped coming back.”

Still lying. Still refusing to meet my eyes. What was she hiding?

I leaned forward. “Look at me.”

She did—finally. Those big eyes glassy, scared. Like she thought I was about to fire her. I feel like she always assumed the worse.

“I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

She sat when I nodded toward the chair. Good girl. Always so quick to obey.

I studied her. The way she held herself together even when she was falling apart. The night in New York she hadn’t taken a single bill from the nightstand, even when hundreds were scattered like trash. She could’ve grabbed my watch. My black card. Anything. She didn’t. That kind of honesty is rare. It makes me want to wrap her up and never let the world touch her again.

“I have a headache,” I said.

She stood immediately. Uncertain.

“Aren’t you going to check?”

She nodded. Rushed around the desk. Stood between my knees. Her small hands settled on my head—gentle, careful. She drew me closer until my forehead rested against her stomach. Fingers threaded through my hair, massaging slow circles over my scalp.

Christ.

I closed my eyes. Let myself feel it. Her warmth. Her scent—clean soap and faint vanilla. My cock twitched. I ignored it. Focused on the soft pressure of her fingertips. On the way she didn’t pull away.

Her phone buzzed on the chair across the room.

She didn’t move.

“You going to get that?”

She smiled faintly. Stepped back. Picked it up. The screen lit her face for a second before she angled it away—but not fast enough.

Ethan.

The name burned into my brain.

She ended the call without answering. Walked back. Hesitated.

“I should get something for your headache, Sir.”

I rolled my eyes. Stood. Pointed near the mini fridge in the corner.

“Stay here the rest of the day. Drinks are in there. My head’s fine.”

She looked like she might argue—then thought better of it. Walked slowly back to the chair. Sat.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

The saddest sound I’d ever heard from her.

I straightened my tie. Grabbed my tablet. I should attend my Meeting first. Then I deal with Ethan.

And after that… I deal with her.

No more hiding. No more pretending she doesn’t remember.

She’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

And the message? I knew she remembered me .

By the time I returned from the board meeting, Isabella was gone.

The office felt emptier without her—chair pushed in neatly, laptop closed, no trace of the faint vanilla scent that clung to her skin. I hadn’t asked her to stay. Hadn’t told her to wait. But part of me expected her to read the unspoken command anyway. She didn’t.

I grabbed the flash drive I’d left on the desk, locked up, and headed home.

The shower hit first thing—hot water pounding my shoulders, steam filling the glass enclosure. My mind went straight to her. Isabella in the rain, dress clinging, hair plastered to her neck, lips parted as I backed her against a wall and...

There’s no such thing as warm rain in London.

Frustrated, I shut off the water, stepped out naked, and froze. My son, Lucian stood by the bed, staring down at my phone.

I didn’t speak. Just crossed to the towel rack, wrapped one low around my hips, then cleared my throat.

He turned. Flat expression. No guilt. No surprise. Just that blank, unreadable look he’s perfected.

Blond hair—nothing like mine or Valentina’s dark waves. Eyes shaped differently. Features that scream her more than me every single day. He acts like her too: secretive, sharp-tongued, quick to resentment. Not to forget they never respected privacy.

I walked over, plucked the phone from his hand. Screen lit with notifications. One missed call: **Angioletto**.

A slow, satisfied smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. She’d called. Even if it was a mistake, the name on my screen was hers.

“I know that’s not Mom’s number,” Lucian said flatly.

I forced my face neutral and headed to the walk-in closet. Pulled on navy sleep shorts, nothing else. Rubbed my feet together to shake off lingering water, then dropped onto the bed.

“Nice to see you too, son. My day was great,” I said dryly.

He caught the edge in my tone. Didn’t push. Instead he pulled his own phone from his pocket and held it out.

“I got my test results. Mom came by today. She wants to stay here for a few days.”

“No.”

I didn’t even look at the screen. He waited. I kept staring at the ceiling.

“Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Familiar. That had always being our father and son conversation.

I finally glanced over. He was pouting—fake, performative, the way kids do when they’ve been coached.

“Your mom put you up to asking.”

He nodded once. Reluctant.

“We could be like other families,” he said quietly.

I exhaled. Softened my voice as much as I could manage.

“You have us. She loves you. I love you. We’re not together, but we’re not enemies. We just… need space to figure things out.”

He didn’t buy it. Scrolled through his phone instead—photos of classmates with both parents at events, vacations, birthdays. Every frame had two adults smiling on either side of a kid. Every frame except his.

He was always with Ethan or Elena. My secretary doubling as emergency driver. His nanny since he was in diapers. Good people. Reliable. But not parents.

Guilt twisted low in my gut.

“I work long hours, Luci. You know that. Tell Ethan ahead of time or text me—I’ll come for whatever you need. School events, games, whatever.”

“I’m twelve. Not stupid.” His face flushed red. Lips trembled. Holding back a storm.

I waited. He had ever right to be angry but his mom and I just can't be together no more.

“If you don’t like Mom, why did you get her pregnant?”

The question landed like a blade.

I couldn’t answer honestly. Couldn’t tell a twelve-year-old that his mother had been a casual hookup who kept showing up, that the sex was addictive enough I let it continue, that she announced a pregnancy I accepted—until I caught her six months along fucking one of my former business partners in my own guest room.

So I said nothing. No need to also tell him I wasn't really in love with his mom.

“Go to sleep, son.”

He yanked the duvet off me. Eyes blazing with that same hate Valentina used to flash when she didn’t get her way.

“That’s rude,” I said calmly, like I was talking to a toddler. “Let Daddy sleep.”

He released the blanket but didn’t move.

“Mom said you’d act like this.”

I sat up slowly. Was she telling him things?

“You should’ve asked her what she did when you were six months in her belly.” I snapped.

My voice stayed even. Anger simmered beneath it but I would not want to hear what he would use against her later. She deserves to be loved from her child.

I got out of bed. Walked to the door. Opened it.

“If you make me come get you again, I’ll send you to stay with your mother for three months. Full time.”

He froze.

Luci hated her place. Hated the revolving door of “visitors,” the small room, the spotty Wi-Fi, the way she left him alone for hours. One week and he’d be begging to come home.

“That’s what I thought.”

He walked out without another word.

I closed the door. Leaned against it. Sighed. I shouldn’t have threatened him. He’s just a kid. Brainwashed by her lies, sure—but still a kid. Still my kid and I love him.

I dropped back onto the bed. Rolled over. Grabbed my phone.

One new message.

From **Angioletto**.

I called my mistake. My phone was in my bag and it kinda bag-dialed. Please forgive me, Sir.

I snorted.

Bag-dialed. Who does that?!

It was barely eight. My thumb hovered over the call button.

No. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I see her in person. Tomorrow I make sure she replaces that entire wardrobe before she “blouse-dials” me in one of her mother’s old blouses.