"They Laughed at the Woman in the Cheap Dress—Until the Most Powerful Man in the Room Walked Over and Called Her His Wife."

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind us, and the suffocating weight of the public spotlight finally lifted.

I kicked off my designer heels, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief as I tossed my evening clutch onto the velvet sofa. The adrenaline of the Met Gala red carpet was finally wearing off, leaving behind a strange, sweet vulnerability in the quiet air of the suite.

Matteo loosened his bow tie, letting it drop to the floor, and began unbuttoning his cuffs. He watched me with those intense dark hazel eyes, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips.

“You destroyed her,” Matteo noted smoothly, walking over to the minibar to pour two glasses of bourbon.

“I didn't do anything,” I protested, turning around with a playful smirk. “You’re the one who threatened to bankrupt her family’s logistics portfolio over a snide comment.”

“She insulted my wife,” Matteo replied simply, walking over and handing me a crystal glass. “In my world, words have consequences. Especially when directed at the wrong person.”

I took the glass, swirling the amber liquid as I leaned back against the edge of the marble table. “You know… when you first pulled me out of that crowd at the Plaza three weeks ago, I thought you were just playing the hero to prove a point to high society.”

Matteo stopped. He took a slow sip of his bourbon, his eyes never leaving mine. “And what do you think now?”

“I think you’re dangerously unpredictable,” I said softly, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I think this whole fake engagement business is getting entirely out of hand.”

Matteo set his glass down on the table with a soft clink. He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his large hands coming to rest gently on my hips, pulling me forward until there was barely an inch of space left between our bodies.

“Who said it was fake, Ayla?” he whispered, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always short-circuited my rational thought processes.

My breath caught. “Matteo… we made a deal. An arrangement to fix a social imbalance.”

“I lied,” he confessed without a single shred of remorse.

My eyes widened. “You lied?”

“I knew the second I saw you help my grandmother outside that market that I was going to find a way into your life,” Matteo murmured, his fingers tracing slow, hypnotic circles against my waist. “The gala, the fake proposal, the audits, the press conferences—they were all just elaborate excuses to keep you close enough to realize that you belong with me.”

The confession hung in the warm, quiet air between us, heavy and absolute.

All the snide remarks from Mabel, all the corporate intimidation from Jean, all the flashing camera bulbs and glittering society rumors—they all faded away until there was only the steady thud of Matteo’s heart beneath my palms.

“You’re an impossible, manipulative billionaire,” I whispered, a helpless smile breaking across my face.

“And you’re the only woman in the world who isn't intimidated by it,” Matteo replied huskily.

He didn't give me a chance to respond. His lips met mine in a deep, slow, consuming kiss that swept away every remaining doubt, every lingering fear, and every boundary we had ever drawn.