CH 14

    Three days without seeing Mateo felt like slow suffocation. I should have been relieved—no intense stares, no commanding voice making my thighs clench, no risk of him noticing the fading green-yellow bruise around my left eye or the scabbed cut on my lip. But relief never came. Instead I caught myself missing him. The way his dark eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing in the room. The low rumble of “Angioletto” that always sent heat straight between my body. The brush of his fingers when he tucked hair behind my ear. The way he kissed me like he was starving and I was the only thing that could feed him.

 

I missed him so badly it hurt.

 

Aisha stopped by mid-morning to remind me about her birthday party tomorrow. She looked radiant—high ponytail, gold hoop earrings, fitted emerald blazer that made her waist look impossible. I tried not to compare. Failed.

 

“Black theme,” she reminded me with that easy smile. “Wear whatever makes you feel powerful.”

 

I nodded. Forced enthusiasm. Inside I was screaming. How could I stand in a room with her, knowing what Ethan said? Knowing she might have been under Mateo the same way I had—legs spread, moaning his name, coming apart on his tongue?

 

'Get it together, Bell. He’s not your man'

 

Alone in my office I stared at the laptop screen without seeing it. Why did Mateo even hire me? No one got sick. No emergencies. I sat here collecting a paycheck for doing nothing while my nursing degree gathered dust. I owed him—flight, apartment, cash, clothes, spa days—and he kept calling. Not just calling. FaceTiming. Like we were something more than boss and employee. Like we were lovers who missed each other.

 

But we weren’t. We had fucked once in New York. That would practically be a drunk one night stand for the both of us.

 

He had made me come so hard I forgot my name in my apartment. We had almost crashed a car making out like teenagers. That wasn’t a relationship. That was… chemistry. Debt. Convenience.

 

Maybe he was already back to Aisha. Maybe that’s why he had been gone. Or why she had invited me to her birthday to mock me.

 

I cussed under my breath. Stood up. Paced.

 

The phone buzzed. Not a call—a new email. Sender: e.caldwell.private@g***l.com

 

My stomach dropped.

 

I deleted it without opening. Blocked the address.

 

Another call came through immediately—same unknown number and I knew it would  be the same one he used last time. I ended it before the first ring finished.

 

I shouldn’t have done that.

 

Panic clawed up my throat. What if he showed up again? What if he waited outside? What if he—

 

The phone rang again. Mateo.

 

I answered on the second ring. Tried to sound sleepy.

 

“Hello, Sir—”

 

“Switch to FaceTime. Now.”

 

His voice was steel. No room for argument.

 

I froze. My face wasn’t bad anymore—the bruise had faded to sickly green, the swelling mostly gone, the lip scabbed but covered with gloss—but I still angled the camera up, showing mostly my forehead and eyes.

 

“I’m… resting, Sir. Bad network maybe—”

 

“You’re not resting, Isabella.”

 

He said my full name. Not Bell. Not Angioletto. The sound of it made my stomach flip and my thighs press together.

 

“I—I was just—”

 

“You weren’t sleeping.” A pause. “Look at me.”

 

I hesitated. Then slowly tilted the phone down. Kept my hair draped over the left side. Smiled weakly.

 

“Hi.”

 

Silence on his end. Then a low exhale.

 

“I’ve been checking on you. Your father called. Asked me to make sure you’re okay.”

 

I almost laughed. Nathan hadn’t called in weeks. But I didn’t correct him.

 

“I’m fine, Sir.”

 

“You look… different.” His eyes narrowed. “More makeup than usual.”

 

I forced a laugh. “Trying something new.”

 

He didn’t buy it. Just studied me like he could see through the foundation and the hair curtain.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Don’t walk home late. Use the car service. And Isabella?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Be good.”

 

The call ended.

 

I stared at the black screen. Heart hammering. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t demanded answers. But the way he said “be good” made my core clench. Made me imagine kneeling for him. Hands behind my back. Mouth open. Waiting for his cock. Waiting for him to call me his good girl while he fucked my throat raw.

 

I squeezed my thighs together. Wetness soaked my panties.

 

Stop it, Bell. He’s not yours. But God, I wanted him to be.

 

The rest of the day crawled. I watched shows. I ate something  from the mini fridge at the corner. Ignored the knot in my stomach.

 

Closing time came. I packed up. Hood up. Hair forward. Walked to the elevator.

 

“Hey.”

 

Aisha. Again. Gosh she was everywhere and I feel like she was doing it on purpose. Like a scheming innocent bitch waiting for a time to dust me.

 

“Hey,” I echoed.

 

She looked me over. Noticed the heavy makeup. The way I angled my face.

 

“You look better,” she said softly.

 

I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice. And she did sound sincere so saying something that might hurt her would hurt me too.

 

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Awkward.

 

“You really close to Mr. Rossi?” I blurted.

 

Her brows lifted. Surprise. Then a small, knowing smile.

 

“We’ve… worked together a long time.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That’s all.”

 

I searched her face for lies. Found none.

 

She stepped closer. Lowered her voice.

 

“I’m not sleeping with him, Bell. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Whatever you’re feeling… it’s okay to want him. Just be careful. He’s intense.”

 

My throat closed. Oh! Was I too transparent?

 

She squeezed my arm. “See you tomorrow night?”

 

I nodded. “Black dress. I’ll be there.”

 

She smiled—real, warm—and stepped off on her floor. I rode the rest of the way down alone. Hood up. Heart racing.

 

Back home I showered. Hot water. Steam. Tried to wash away the confusion. The want. The fear.

 

Dressed in soft pajamas. Curled on the couch with a book I wasn’t reading.

 

A knock at the door.

 

Midnight.

 

I froze. Grabbed my phone. Checked the new ring camera feed.

 

Mateo.

 

"What on earth is he doing here" I panicked as I straightened my brown pajama set. Crocs. Ran my fingers through my messy hair and practice my smile.

 

My heart lurched. I opened the door a crack.

 

“It’s midnight, Mr. Rossi.”

 

He ignored that. Stepped inside. Closed and locked the door behind him.

 

Before I could protest he pulled me into his arms. Hard. Tight. One hand at the back of my neck, the other low on my waist. I pushed—weakly. He didn’t let go.

 

“Mateo—”

 

“You’re shaking,” he murmured into my hair.

 

I was. Everywhere.

 

He pulled back just enough to look at me. Thumb brushed the corner of my mouth—gentle, careful. Then higher. Over the faded bruise under my eye.

 

“What happened to your face, Angioletto?”

 

His voice was quiet. Dangerous like he was ready for something sinister.

 

I swallowed. Tried to pull away but he didn't let me go.

 

“Tell me.”

 

I looked up at him. Saw worry. Saw anger. Saw something deeper—something possessive and protective and terrifying.

 

I opened my mouth.

 

And everything I had been holding back came pouring out. Nah, just a deep sigh and somehow, I felt less horrible. There was something about his presence that made all my pain turned to pixie dust.