Chapter 4

Abby’s POV

The fragile silence was shattered by the sharp click-clack of heels on the marble floor.

Of course, it wasn't over.

Edward and Amelia Anderson, Nicholas’s parents, swept into the room. Their faces were pinched with fury, and it was clear they’d rushed over the second they saw the news.

Amelia’s eyes, cold and assessing, raked over me, then lingered on Matteo with pure disgust. She didn't just look at me like I'd done something wrong; she looked at me like I was something wrong.

"A woman with no reputation, no shame!" she spat, her voice shrill. "You don't deserve a place in our family!"

For them, I had just committed the world's most sinful sin. Amelia pointed a trembling, diamond-encrusted finger at Matteo.

"And you!" she hissed. "A nobody! Just the bastard playboy of the Romano family! You think you can compare to our Nicholas? Pathetic!"

Matteo’s expression, which had been one of cool amusement, darkened instantly. But just as quickly, a slow, dangerous smile touched his lips, "Mrs. Anderson," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "You seem to have quite a few opinions about the Romanos."

Amelia's face turned bright red. "I..." she sputtered, clearly trying to find another insult.

But Matteo didn’t give her the chance. He cut in, his smile flashing with mock politeness. "Even if I’m not exactly a model citizen, I still carry the Romano surname. Got my name inked right in the Romano family registry." His gaze hardened. "If you’ve got an issue with that, Mrs. Anderson, feel free to take it up with my grandpa."

The unsaid threat hung heavy in the air.

I let out a shaky breath, feeling utterly exhausted by all of them. "Since there’s nothing between us anymore," I said, my voice flat, "just get lost."

The Andersons stared at me as if they couldn't believe the words had come from my mouth.

Edward, his face like thunder, turned to my father. He didn't yell. He was worse. He gave George a death glare and said, "This is the 'lovely' daughter you raised, huh? We Andersons can't afford her."

With that, he marched out. Amelia, fuming, grabbed Nicholas's arm and stormed out after him, dragging her son away like the prize pig who’d failed to win a ribbon.

My father glanced at me, his eyes promising murder, but he couldn't touch me. Not now. Matteo’s silent presence was a shield.

Matteo doesn’t want his 'future wife' to get hurt. How lovely.

The sarcasm in my own head tasted like acid. I was going to be his wife? In my last life, I knew what he became. The brightest, most ruthless businessman in the entire country.

But there was a problem. A huge, terrifying problem with my brilliant escape plan.

"You!" My father’s voice finally exploded, snapping me from my thoughts. He pointed an angry finger at me, his whole body shaking. "How can you be so shameless?! You ruined everything, Abby! You fucking ruined everything!"

He lunged, his hand raised, not to strike, but to grab me, to drag me.

He never made it.

Matteo stopped him, catching his wrist and shoving him back with an effortless, almost casual, force. My father stumbled, his rage momentarily eclipsed by shock.

Matteo just stared him down, his voice pure ice. "You want to try that again?"

I slowly stepped out from behind Matteo’s solid frame. The sense of protection his shadow offered faded, and I felt the cold judgment of the room again. I lifted my chin and faced my father directly.

"Have you ever," I asked, my voice surprisingly steady, "once bothered to know who I really am?"

Of course he hadn't. After my mom passed away, he married his mistress, Josefina, so fast that it was like my mother had never even existed. He brought Erina into our home as if she'd always belonged. And then, after Josefina gave birth to my little brother... I was forgotten. I wasn't his eldest daughter. I was just a pawn. A useful, inconvenient pawn to be married off, never a real part of their perfect, new family. Just an outsider.

My father’s face contorted with rage, "I am your father! You don't speak to me like that!"

A bitter, humorless laugh bubbled up in my chest. "Yeah," I said, the word dripping with the sarcasm of a lifetime of disappointment. "You really are my father."

I didn't wait for his reply. The last bridge had just burned.

I turned from him and glanced at Matteo. My hand found his, and I didn't just hold it—I clung to it. His fingers immediately laced with mine, a solid, warm anchor in the storm.

Without another word, we stepped outside, leaving my father and his family standing in the wreckage. We left them in a stunned, speechless silence, their faces a mask of utter confusion, as if they couldn't possibly comprehend the person I had just become.

Good. Let them wonder.

The massive front door clicked shut behind us, plunging us into the cold, quiet night. The adrenaline that had been screaming through my veins began to fade, leaving me shaky and exhausted.

I suddenly realized I was still clinging to Matteo’s hand.

I let go, pulling my arm back as if I'd been burned. He turned to face me under the dim porch light, and his gaze was entirely too intense, too searching. It was a look that seemed to see right through my 20-year-old face to the 25-year-old soul hiding inside.

Don't look at me like that, I pleaded internally. I can't handle feelings. This is a transaction.

I bit my lower lip, trying to force a smile that felt more like a grimace. The tears I'd refused to shed in front of my family were suddenly threatening to fall.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice rough. "For bringing the necklace back. It... it was my mother's." I looked away, taking a shaky breath. "And I'm sorry. For dragging you into all of this."

He didn't smile or dismiss my apology. He just watched me for a long, heavy second.

"The idea you had earlier," he said. "Back in the car. It sounds very... tempting. But I want to know what can you offer in return…."

My breath hitched. I hadn't realized how close we were standing, his body still shielding me from the house by instinct. I took a sharp step back, creating a space that felt safer.

I had to play my card. My real card. This wasn't just a plea for help anymore. This was a negotiation.

“So, here’s the deal. You save me from him," I proposed, "and I'll save you from the gold digger who's about to ruin you."

His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed dangerously in suspicion.

"How," he demanded in a whisper, "do you know anything about that?"