Chapter 9

Matteo’s POV

The study remained quiet just like I always liked it to be growing up. Heavy curtains muted the afternoon light, turning the room into a controlled twilight.

Dark wood lined the walls, shelves upon shelves of carefully curated volumes, some older than the city itself. The desk before me was spotless except for the files laid open, their contents neat, organized, and almost too damning.

Numbers. Names. Routes. Order. I preferred the order.

I sat back in my chair, eyes scanning the page without really seeing it. The reports were familiar, too familiar. I could recite the contents from memory if I wanted to. But my mind refused to stay anchored.

It had been doing that a lot lately and I didn’t understand why.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the study. Headed my way. Too fast for the servants, too careless for anyone who actually understood this house.

Regardless, I didn’t look up. The door opened without a knock and I didn’t even move. I didn’t need to.

I felt her before I even saw her, the shift in the air, the disruption of the careful balance of the room—that damn perfume of hers. Zara James had a way of entering spaces like she owned them, even when she absolutely did not.

“Why,” she said sharply, “am I suddenly being escorted to and from school like a child?”

Her voice cut through the quiet, precise and controlled but threaded with something dangerous, anger, yes, but also pride. Audacity.

Which I find Interesting by the way.

I kept my eyes on the file in front of me, turning the page slowly, deliberately not looking at her. The paper made a soft sound as it slid beneath my fingers.

“You could have knocked,” I said calmly.

She laughed. “You wouldn’t even have answered.”

When she said that, I didn’t deny it and then I finally looked up.

She stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid, and her jaw tight. Her outfit was immaculate, too immaculate I must say. She wore restraint like armor, and it irritated me how well it suited her.

Most women shrank in my presence but not her. Zara expanded.

“Sit,” I said, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk.

“No.”

A corner of my mouth twitched before I could even stop it and then I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled, gaze steady. “You barged into my study uninvited, Zara. The least you could do is stand properly.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Then don’t challenge me,” I replied evenly as I glared at her.

She uncrossed her arms and took a step forward instead, palms pressing flat against my desk. The scent of her, clean, subtle, unmistakably her reached me, uninvited and unwelcome.

And yet.

“Why,” she said again, slower this time, “do you suddenly care where I go and who takes me there?”

I studied her face, the line of her brows, the controlled fury behind her eyes. She had always been like this, sharp, unafraid, far too perceptive for her own good.

I said nothing.

Her jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask for protection. I didn’t ask for surveillance. And I certainly didn’t ask for your driver to show up like a shadow the moment I step outside.”

Still, I said nothing. Because if I spoke, I would say too much. Because if I answered honestly, she would understand exactly how dangerous the world around her was.

And exactly how deeply she was already entangled in mine.

“You don’t get to meddle in my life,” she continued, voice lowering. “You made it very clear you want nothing to do with me beyond necessity. So why start now?”

I rose slowly from my chair. Her gaze lifted to follow me, but she didn’t step back. Brave. Or foolish? I couldn’t even tell.

I walked around the desk, stopping at a careful distance from her but close enough to feel the tension between us, far enough to maintain control.

“You’re under my roof,” I said quietly. “That makes your safety my responsibility.”

She scoffed. “That’s convenient.”

“Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant.”

Her eyes searched my face, looking for cracks. For tells. For something she could use. But I made sure she found none.

“This isn’t about safety,” she said softly. “This is about control.”

Something dark flickered through me.

“Everything,” I replied, just as softly, “is about control.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. And then, unbidden, memory surged.

Her beneath me, warm, defiant, mouth sharp with words she didn’t mean to soften. The way she had looked at me that night, challenging, unapologetic, eyes blazing with something that had nothing to do with fear.

A mistake. One I had replayed more times than I cared to admit.

I forced my mind back to the present.

“You’re done with classes for the day,” I said instead, turning away from her abruptly. “You’ll be attending a gala tonight.”

She stiffened. “A what?”

“A family event,” I clarified. “Formal. Public.”

“I wasn’t informed.”

“You are now.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

I paused, then spoke without looking at her. “You will.”

I pressed a button on my desk. “Marco.”

The door opened almost instantly. My driver stood at attention, expression neutral.

“Take Zara into town,” I said. “Get her something appropriate for tonight.”

Zara spun toward me. “You can’t be serious.”

I met her gaze then, fully, with an eyebrow raised. “You’ll represent this family properly.”

Her laugh was sharp. “I’m not part of your family.”

I stepped closer again, lowering my voice. “Tonight, you are.”

The words hung between us, heavier than they should have been but that wasn’t the point.

Her chest rose with a controlled breath as if she was trying to hold back a few words or probably trying not to explode in front of me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” I said simply.

She stared at me for a long moment, then straightened, lifting her chin. “Fine. But don’t mistake compliance for consent.”

Another flicker of something unusual, admiration, perhaps—stirred in my chest.

“Careful,” I murmured. “That kind of defiance gets noticed.”

“Whatever!” She yelled and then walked away.