MATTEO POV'S

The email from Valentina hit my inbox at 6:03 a.m. New York time.

Subject: Buy-Back Offer : Terms & Deadline

No greeting.

No pleasantries.

Just three bullet points and a forty-eight-hour clock.

I read it twice, then three times, feeling each word sink deeper until it sat like lead in my stomach.

She wanted every share back.

Full valuation.

No premium.

No negotiation.

And if I refused?

She would go public with the funding trail herself turn the story into a media firestorm before the palace could spin it.

Smart.

Ruthless.

Completely her.

I leaned back against the headboard, the hotel room still dark except for the blue glow of the screen.

Outside, Manhattan was beginning to stir, but in here the silence felt thick, oppressive.

I should have been angry.

I should have felt betrayed.

Instead I felt something dangerously close to pride.

She hadn’t changed.

Not really.

The woman who once told me she’d rather burn her designs than accept charity was now threatening to burn her entire empire just to keep me out.

I opened a new window.

Pulled up the encrypted folder I kept buried on the family server.

The file name was simple: Succession – Contingency 2025.

Inside were the documents my uncle Carlo had slipped me last month when the parliament vote passed.

New law.

Male primogeniture restored.

No named heir from Alessandro.

The crown would pass to the next legitimate male descendant.

And Luca my son was legitimate.

The clinic records from Positano had surfaced.

My name on the paternity acknowledgment I’d signed in secret before I left.

Her name.

His.

The council had voted 11–2 to demand verification.

My mother voted against.

She lost.

I scrolled further.

Private correspondence between Elena and the Prime Minister.

She’d tried to bury the records.

Offered favours.

Threatened favours withdrawn.

Then the last email, dated two weeks ago.

From Elena to Carlo.

If the child is confirmed, the succession crisis ends.

But the American mother cannot be allowed to raise him.

We will petition for custody on grounds of moral unfitness.

Prepare the dossier.

Make it airtight.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Moral unfitness.

The woman who’d built a fifty-million-dollar brand from nothing while raising our son alone.

The woman who’d refused every handout, every shortcut, every man who offered an easier path.

My mother wanted to take Luca from her.

I closed the laptop.

Hard.

The sound echoed in the empty room.

I stood up, walked to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red.

Five years ago I’d chosen silence to protect Valentina.

I’d believed my mother when she said the crown would destroy her.

I’d believed the crown was more important than the woman I loved.

I’d been wrong.

The crown wasn’t a legacy.

It was a curse.

And I was done letting it touch them.

I picked up my phone again.

This time I dialled Carlo.

He answered on the second ring.

“Matteo. It’s early even for you.”

“I’m flying to New York tonight,” I said. “I need you to stall the petition. Buy me time.”

A long pause.

“You know what you’re asking.”

“I know.”

“Your mother will see this as treason.”

“Let her.”

Another pause.

Then his voice, quieter.

“The boy… he looks like you.”

I swallowed.

“I know.”

“Be careful, nephew.

The throne doesn’t forgive easily.”

“I’m not asking forgiveness,” I said.

“I’m asking for a chance to be a father.”

I ended the call.

Then I opened my email again.

Replied to Valentina.

One line.

I accept your terms.

But I’m coming to New York.

We talk face to face.

No lawyers.

No board.

Just us.

I hit send.

The message disappeared into the void.

I looked out at the city one last time.

The sun was rising now, turning the glass towers into flames.

I’d spent five years running from the crown.

Now I was running toward the only thing that mattered.

And if the palace wanted to burn me for it,

let them try.

I was already on fire.

VALENTINA POV'S

The email landed in my inbox at 6:47 a.m., while I was still in the kitchen pouring coffee that had gone cold hours ago.

Luca was asleep in his room, the soft hum of his white noise machine drifting down the hallway like a lullaby I hadn’t earned the right to hear anymore.

I opened the message on my phone, standing barefoot on the marble floor that felt colder than usual.

One line.

I accept your terms. But I’m coming to New York. We talk face to face. No lawyers. No board. Just us.

I read it again, slower this time, letting each word settle into the places where old wounds still ached.

No apology.

No excuses.

Just a demand wrapped in velvet.

The same velvet he’d used to whisper promises against my skin in Positano, promises that dissolved the moment he boarded that plane.

I set the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter if I moved too fast.

Then I walked to the window and watched the city wake up below me, the first streaks of light turning the buildings into gold and shadow.

My reflection stared back from the glass hair tangled, eyes tired, mouth set in a line that had become permanent over the last five years.

I looked like a woman who’d learned to survive.

I looked like a mother who’d learned to fight.

I looked like someone who was tired of fighting alone.

I picked up the phone again and dialled Maria.

She answered on the first ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Boss?”

“Clear my schedule for the next forty-eight hours,” I told her. “No meetings. No calls. Nothing. And tell the board the buy-back offer is on hold until further notice.”

A pause.

Then, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I hung up.

The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic far below.

I walked to Luca’s room, pushed the door open just enough to see him curled on his side, one small hand clutching the stuffed lion he’d named King.

My chest tightened.

I closed the door again and went back to the kitchen.

This time I made fresh coffee.

Two cups.

I knew he’d be here soon.

I knew because Matteo De Luca never backed down from a challenge.

I knew because the man who’d funded my company in secret for four years wasn’t the type to let a forty-eight-hour deadline stop him.

And I knew because, deep down, in the place I kept locked away from everyone including myself, I wanted him to come.

Not because I forgave him.

Not because I needed him.

Because Luca deserved to know the other half of where he came from.

Because I was tired of carrying the weight of the past alone.

Because some part of me the part I hated admitting existed still remembered what it felt like to be loved by him, even if that love had come with a crown and a price I couldn’t afford.

I poured the second cup.

Black.

No sugar.

The way he liked it.

Then I sat at the island, stared at the steam rising in slow spirals, and waited.

The doorbell rang at 7:32 a.m.

I didn’t move right away.

I let it ring twice.

Let the sound echo through the penthouse like a warning.

Then I stood up, smoothed my shirt, and walked to the door.

I opened it.

Matteo stood there in the hallway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a dark sweater and jeans that looked too casual for a prince.

His eyes were shadowed, tired, but steady.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I stepped aside.

“Come in,” I said.

He stepped over the threshold.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt final.

We stood there in the foyer, inches apart, breathing the same air for the first time in five years.

I could smell bergamot and rain and the faint trace of the cologne he’d worn that summer in Positano.

My heart remembered before my mind could stop it.

I turned away first.

“Coffee’s on the counter,” I said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He followed me into the kitchen without a word.

The war hadn’t started yet.

But it was coming.

And this time, neither of us was running.

MATTEO POV'S

The Face to Face

She opened the door wearing the same black silk shirt she’d worn that night in Positano, the one that slipped off one shoulder when she laughed too hard.

The sight of it hit me like a fist to the chest memory and regret colliding in the same breath.

I stepped inside without being invited, because she’d already stepped aside, and the door closed behind me with a soft finality that echoed through the foyer.

The apartment smelled of coffee and her jasmine from the diffuser, vanilla from the candles she always lit when she was thinking too hard.

Luca’s toys were scattered across the living room rug like evidence of a life I’d missed.

She walked ahead of me to the kitchen island, where two mugs sat waiting.

Black.

No sugar.

The way I liked it.

She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

“Sit.”

I sat on one of the high stools, the leather cool against my back.

She stayed standing, arms crossed loosely, weight on one hip, the posture she used when she was trying not to show how much something hurt.

I took the mug.

The heat seeped into my palms.

We didn’t speak for a long moment.

The city hummed far below us, a distant roar that felt like it belonged to someone else’s life.

She broke the silence first.

“You funded my company.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was an accusation wrapped in quiet disbelief.

I nodded once.

“Why?”

I looked at the steam rising from my coffee, watched it curl and disappear.

“Because I couldn’t let you fail.

I knew the numbers.

I knew how close you were to losing everything.

Every time you posted a new collection, every time you talked about fighting for the brand… I saw you.

I saw the woman I left behind.

And I couldn’t stand the thought of her world collapsing because I wasn’t there to catch it.”

She laughed softly, without humor.

“So you caught it from the shadows.

Like a coward.”

The word landed hard.

I didn’t flinch.

She was right.

“Yes.”

She finally looked at me.

Really looked.

Her eyes were the same green I remembered, but there were new lines at the corners, small ones that appeared when she smiled at Luca.

Lines I hadn’t been there to see form.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“You could have called.

Sent an email.

Dropped a postcard.

Anything.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?”

“From my family.”

She went still.

I set the mug down.

Carefully.

Like it might break if I moved too fast.

“My mother found out about us the day I left Positano.

She had the villa searched.

Found the note you left under the pillow.

She showed me the dossier she’d already built on you.

Your address.

Your mother’s hospital bills.

Your student visa status.

Everything.”

Valentina’s breath caught, just once.

“She said if I ever contacted you again, she would make sure you disappeared.

Not metaphorically.

She showed me photos.

You walking home.

You at the park.

A laser dot on your back.”

I watched the color drain from her face.

“She gave me a choice,” I continued.

“Walk away forever, or watch you die in a ‘tragic accident.’

I chose silence.

I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”

She stared at me.

“You believed her.”

“I did.”

“You let her win.”

“I let her think she won.”

Valentina pushed off the counter.

Walked to the window.

Stared out at the city without seeing it.

I stood up slowly.

Moved closer, but not too close.

“I funded the company because it was the only way I could stay connected to you without putting you in danger.

Every transfer was a message I couldn’t send any other way.

I’m sorry.

I’m here.

I’m still yours.

Even if you never knew it.”

She turned.

Her eyes were bright, too bright.

“And Luca?”

“I didn’t know.”

The words tasted like ash.

“I swear on my life I didn’t know until three weeks ago, when the council found the clinic records.

My mother knew.

She kept it from me.

She was planning to take him.

To raise him as a De Luca.

Without you.”

Valentina’s hand curled into a fist at her side.

“She can try.”

Her voice was low.

Dangerous.

I took another step.

“I won’t let her.”

She looked at me then really looked.

Searched my face for the lie she expected to find.

She didn’t find it.

“What do you want, Matteo?”

The question hung between us.

I answered without hesitation.

“I want my son.

I want you.

I want the chance to fix what I broke.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she walked past me, toward the hallway that led to Luca’s room.

She paused at the doorway.

“You get one chance,” she said without turning around.

“One.

Screw it up, and I will destroy you.

Not because I hate you.

Because I don’t have the luxury of hating you anymore.

I have a son to protect.”

She disappeared down the hall.

I stood there alone in her kitchen, coffee going cold, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

One chance.

It was more than I deserved.

It was everything.