Y/n had been inside all day. Matteo had barely looked at them since breakfast, his attention consumed by business, by Luca's quiet counsel, by Enzo's reports delivered in hushed tones. The marriage had been arranged six months ago, but there were days—like today—that made it feel like a transaction.

The French doors slid open with a soft click. Y/n stepped out into the heat, barefoot on the stone, wearing nothing but a swimsuit that left very little to the imagination. The fabric was deep emerald, tied at the hips, cut high on the thighs. The top was barely more than triangles of silk.

The conversation on the patio faltered.

His eyes found Y/n across the lawn, moving toward the the pool with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The sunlight caught the curve of their hip, the dip of their spine, the the way the swimsuit seemed designed to make a man forget his own name.

Matteo's jaw tightened. The cigarette stilled between his fingers. For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing at all.