He told me I was under his roof. He didn't tell me when I could leave.
Matteo Ricci: tobacco and bergamot, a thin white scar over his eyebrow, a boss who catalogs people like inventory. He calls me "options" and then keeps a cigarette for my nerves. He is brittle control and sudden, stupid tenderness. He can bargain with empires and he watches me like I might be stolen.
He pulled me from my father's ballroom into his study and put me in a guest wing. He gave me his jacket. He brewed my espresso the way I like it. He kissed me in the library and then in the rain. He taught me to name rules. He promised no parades. He taught me to ask for what I want and to expect to be heard. Then my father sent an envelope. Forty‑eight hours. Come home or suffer the consequences.
I can go back and be used. Or I can stay and be claimed—on my terms or his. He says he'll fight for me. He says he'll ask before he takes. He says he'll protect me without bargaining me away.
Can I trust a man whose life is leverage to choose me the way I need to be chosen?
Matteo Ricci: tobacco and bergamot, a thin white scar over his eyebrow, a boss who catalogs people like inventory. He calls me "options" and then keeps a cigarette for my nerves. He is brittle control and sudden, stupid tenderness. He can bargain with empires and he watches me like I might be stolen.
He pulled me from my father's ballroom into his study and put me in a guest wing. He gave me his jacket. He brewed my espresso the way I like it. He kissed me in the library and then in the rain. He taught me to name rules. He promised no parades. He taught me to ask for what I want and to expect to be heard. Then my father sent an envelope. Forty‑eight hours. Come home or suffer the consequences.
I can go back and be used. Or I can stay and be claimed—on my terms or his. He says he'll fight for me. He says he'll ask before he takes. He says he'll protect me without bargaining me away.
Can I trust a man whose life is leverage to choose me the way I need to be chosen?