Page 28

I hear a soft sniffle from inside the room, and something in my chest constricts. Before I can stop myself, I’m pushing the door open, stepping into Maria’s sanctuary.

She’s curled up on the chaise lounge, her phone clutched to her chest, eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, she doesn’t notice me, lost in her own world of homesickness and longing. Then her gaze snaps to mine, and I watch as she straightens, composing herself with practiced ease.

“Matteo,” she says, her voice steady despite the moisture in her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I stand there, feeling like an intruder in this intimate moment. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we never say.

“How much did you hear?” she finally asks a hint of resignation in her tone.

I consider lying, but something in her vulnerable posture makes me pause. “Enough,” I admit, my voice low.

“I see.” She nods in understanding.

“Come with me,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

Her brows furrow. “Where?”

I don’t answer. I just turn and start walking, knowing she’ll follow.

Maria follows me in silence as I lead her down the hall, through the grand corridors of our home. I don’t say a word as I push open a set of heavy double doors and step inside. This is something I had commissioned when we first made our way back to the States.

She hesitates on the threshold, her eyes flickering with curiosity before she finally steps in.

Her breath catches—sharp and audible, like she’s been struck.

The room is bathed in golden light, and for the first time, I see something in her eyes I rarely do: wonder.

Her fingers graze the art supplies with the kind of reverence that belongs to something sacred.

She turns to me, her lips parting slightly as if trying to find the words.

But she doesn’t need to. I see it in her eyes.

Canvases lean against the walls, some blank, some filled with soft brushstrokes of unfinished work. A massive easel stands in the center of the room, flanked by shelves of art supplies—paints, brushes, charcoals—all untouched, waiting for her.

Her fingers trail over the edge of the wooden table, tracing the outlines of the tools before turning to me, eyes wide with something I can’t quite name.

“Wha—what is this?” She gestures to the room.

“This is your new studio. I figured, since I have a study, you would want your own creative space here.”

“You… you did this?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I shift my weight, suddenly feeling out of place. “You’re always drawing and your father mentioned your love for arts.”

She blinks as if trying to process my words. Then, cautiously, she steps further into the room, walking slowly as if afraid she’ll wake from a dream.

I watch her, something unfamiliar twisting in my chest.

“I thought maybe if you had something of your own here,” I say, watching her fingers brush against the smooth wood of the easel, “it wouldn’t feel so much like a prison.”

Maria’s eyes widen at my words, her hand stilling on the easel. She turns to face me, her expression a mix of surprise and something else I can’t quite decipher. For a moment, we stand in silence, the weight of my admission hanging between us.

“Matteo,” she begins, her voice soft and uncertain. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

I shift uncomfortably, unused to this vulnerability. “You don’t have to say anything,” I mutter, averting my gaze. “I just thought…”

But before I can finish, Maria closes the distance between us. Her hand reaches out, hesitating for a moment before gently touching my arm. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I find myself looking into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “This is… it’s more than I ever expected.”

I stand there, frozen by her touch and the raw gratitude in her eyes.

This isn’t how things usually go between us.

Our interactions are typically stilted, and formal—a carefully choreographed dance of polite distance.

But now, with her hand on my arm and her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, I feel something shift.

“You’re welcome,” I manage, my voice gruffer than I intend. I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “I know it’s not Italy, but?—”

“It’s perfect,” Maria interrupts, her voice soft but firm. She looks around the room again, wonder etched on her delicate features. “I can’t believe you remembered my art.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with her praise. “Your father mentioned it. I thought it might help you feel more… at home.”

Maria’s eyes soften at my words, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It does,” she says quietly. “More than you know.”

We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with a familiar tension. I’m acutely aware of her hand still resting on my arm, the warmth of her touch seeping through my suit jacket.

Not wanting to think too much of it, I grab her hips and pull her toward me. I lean in, slowly, giving her the chance to move away. She doesn’t. Instead, her breath hitches, her lips parting just slightly.

I close the distance between us, brushing my mouth against hers, soft at first—testing. But the moment she exhales, surrendering, I’m lost.

I kiss her deeply, my hand sliding up to cup the side of her neck, my thumb grazing her jaw. She melts into me, her fingers gripping the front of my shirt as if she doesn’t want me to pull away.

When I finally break the kiss, her eyes are dazed, her breathing unsteady.

“I have to leave for business tonight,” I tell her, my voice low. “But when I come back… we can talk.”

Maria nods slowly, her fingers still curled into my shirt.

I step back, letting my hand drop. But before I turn to leave, I notice something—her face is paler than usual, and there’s a slight fatigue in her eyes.

I pause, studying Maria’s face more closely. The color of her skin and the faint shadows under her eyes concern me. It’s subtle, but noticeable to someone who has been observing her as intently as I have these past weeks.

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask, my tone softer than I intended.

Maria blinks, seemingly surprised by my question. She forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she says quickly. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Get some rest,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles against her cheek. I press my lips to her forehead and leave her with one lasting kiss.

This is the first time I’m tender with her without thinking too much of it. The actions are like second nature.

“I will text you when I land.” And with those words, I leave her and head to my room to pack.

She watches me go, and something stirs in my chest—a flicker of something I thought was long dead. I wait for the panic to set in. It never does. And that terrifies me.