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My heart is racing. It’s now or never. With trembling fingers, I reach for the tie of my robe.

“For this,” I breathe, letting the silk fall open to reveal the red lace underneath.

Matteo stills, his gaze dragging over my exposed body. The air between us crackles with electricity. For a long moment, he says nothing—just drinks me in with a heated gaze that makes my skin tingle.

But the tension in his jaw gives him away. And then, just like that, the heat in his gaze turns to something else. He looks at me like I’ve done something unforgivable—like my existence alone is an offense.

His voice, when it comes, is a low, controlled snarl. “Maria… what the hell are you doing?”

I gather my courage and step closer to him. “I… I can’t stop thinking about the other night.” My voice is softer now, my breath shaky. Heat floods my cheeks, betraying me.

His eyes drag over the red lingerie I chose—for him—and I don’t miss the flicker of something there. Heat. Want. Quick asa struck match. But just as fast, it’s gone, swallowed whole by something colder.

“Why the fuck are you wearing this? These cheap little slut clothes?”

The words slam into me, each one a deliberate wound, meant to cut, to humiliate.

He steps forward, his body rigid with control, his hands flexing at his sides like he wants to grab me just as much as he wants to push me away. His next words drip with disdain, with barely leashed frustration.

“If I wanted a whore, I could get one.”

The air between us is a live wire, buzzing with everything he refuses to say. Because I see it—I see it. The way his chest rises a little too fast. The way his fingers twitch, like he’s dying to touch me.

And yet, he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because Matteo is a man of control. Of duty. Of chains he locked around himself a long time ago. And I—no matter how much I try—will never be the one he gives in to.

I force myself to gather what little courage I have left. Because if I don’t say this now, I never will.

“You know what? Fine.” My breath is sharp, like I’m holding back more than just words. “I thought maybe—just once—you’d remember what you have. What’s right in front of you. But no.”

I take a step closer, daring him to look away. “If all you see is a slut, then that’s your problem—not mine. I wore this for you. I wanted you to want me. I wanted to remind you that I’m still the woman who can set you on fire with a single look. And maybe—just maybe—you’d see me as something more than duty. More than some contract you’re bound to.”

My voice falters for half a second, but I catch it, turning it into a bitter smile. “But you’d rather spit insults than touch me,wouldn’t you? Because if you touched me, if you gave in for even a second, you’d have to admit you still want me.”

I take a step back, but the air between us hums like a live wire, stretched tight with everything we won’t say. “Congratulations,” I say softly, my voice like a slap wrapped in silk. “Message received. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You think dressing like this gives you power over me?” His voice is low, almost a growl, but even he can hear the rough edge beneath it—desire fighting to break free. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Trying to seduce me like that fixes anything? You could strip naked right now, and it wouldn’t change what we are.”

He steps toward me, so close that my scent hits him like a punch. He leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and deliberate. His voice drops to a whisper, slow and taunting—a sinful mix of heat and venom.

“You want me to fuck you against this wall, is that it?” His words are a ghost against my skin, each syllable sinking into me, dangerous and intoxicating. “To prove you still matter?”

A shiver runs through me, my breath catching in my throat, but before I can react, he pulls back.

His face lingers inches from mine, his breath fanning against my lips, his presence swallowing up every inch of space between us. His eyes are locked on to mine, dark and burning, filled with the kind of hunger that could ruin us both.

He can see my breath catch, my pupils blow wide, and it’s so fucking tempting—but instead, he steps further back. Because if he touches me, even once, he’s done for.

His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides—like he’s physically restraining himself. His voice is lower now, rougher, almost strained. “You don’t know what you’re playing with, Maria.”

I swallow hard, refusing to break eye contact. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m playing with.” My voice comes out softer than I intend, a breathy challenge, but the way his eyes flash tells me he heard every ounce of meaning behind it.

The air between us is stifling, charged, suffocating in the best and worst ways. I can feel the heat of his body, the tension rolling off him in waves, the way his gaze drops—just for a second—to my lips before snapping back up.

He’s struggling. Fighting himself.