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That alone was enough to make me think about him more than I should in ways that I definitely shouldn’t. We were enemies, and if I wanted my freedom back, I couldn’t give in to his deceiving allure. This pull we had was a physical reaction, hormones that needed settling and absolutely nothing else.
But the way he was acting was throwing me off my game. He had apologized when I was crying at the wedding, gave me an extremely thoughtful wedding gift, and even respected my wishes after making me crumble in his hands. Even though deep down I wished he hadn’t.
And now, in the middle of the most passionate kiss I’ve ever had, the only thing I had to say was “stop,” and he backed down without a single question.
Men on the top of the food chain, like Matt, weren't used to being told “no.” They got what they wanted when they wanted it, no questions asked.
He could have forced it, used his build to subdue me, threatened me to give in. But he didn’t.
Instead, to my surprise, he was displaying more respect for me than I was expecting.
He had taken me, made me marry him against my will, and yet he was still trying to win me over with small, thoughtful things. Or so it seemed.
I was expecting the opposite, and every time he did something sweet or respectful, it had an amplified effect on me. I was trying my best to brush it off and failing miserably every single time.
If the ride to the airport back in New York was miserable, this one was ten times worse. Matt didn’t even look at me, never mind speak. He just pretended I wasn’t there.
I shouldn’t care, yet I felt my stomach knotting tighter at each passing mile. It was like I had done something terribly wrong, and the consequences were pending, haunting me with how terrible they could be.
As we arrived at the luxurious hotel, Matt still held the car’s door open for me, despite the blank expression that had me squirming. He avoided eye contact the whole time while I searched his expression for some kind of emotion that would help me read him. But there was none.
He had put on a mask that I had never seen before. A stern, cold, and distant face that did not waver.
Matt marched into the hotel, heading straight to the reception, signaling the Battaglia soldier to keep an eye on me. Instead of staying behind, I found myself following him towards the counter.
“Good afternoon. I have reservations under the name Battaglia.”
“Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome back. Yes, you have two rooms and the honeymoon suite.” The skinny man kindly replied.
“Yes, well, the two rooms are for my staff. They will check in later. Do you have any other suites available?” Matt asked, his tone cold and dismissive.
“Hum… let me check… Not at the moment, Sir. I’m sorry.”
“Another room will be fine then.”
My head whipped towards him as soon as I heard, my brows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t even look back at me.
He’d made a point of booking the honeymoon suite, but now he wanted to stay in separate rooms? Was he that pissed off with me that he was actually trying to get another room for me or himself?
That was what I wanted, yet my stomach still sank to my feet.
“Sorry, Sir. We are fully booked. The only availability will be in three days.”
“Ugh, fine. Book me that, then.” He replied, annoyance clear in his voice. “Max, you’ll have to shackle up with James when he gets here tomorrow. I’m taking his room until another vacates.” He informed, still not acknowledging me before turning back to the receptionist. “Give me one of the other rooms for now, plus the honeymoon suite.”
What?
I was stuck looking at him, speechless. This is more than just anger. More than just resentment.
The receptionist gave him our key cards, and we both headed to our rooms, sharing the elevator in the heaviest of silences.
“You can take the suite.” He held the key card in front of me, still not meeting my gaze.
I wanted to lash back, say something that would cut as harshly as his actions were cutting me, but his words on the plane rang in my ear in a loop, and I couldn’t find it in me.
“I needed to wrap my head around the fact that you don’t feel the same way that I do. My head is a mess when it comes to you, Francesca, and I don’t do chaos.”
Was I the chaos or the source of his chaos?
