HIS

Chapter 9

Calling his house beautiful doesn't even scratch the surface—it's an architectural masterpiece, the kind you'd expect to see in glossy design magazines or jaw-dropping Pinterest boards. I've passed countless upscale homes on my way to school in the area where I grew up, but none quite as striking as this one.

A sleek, double-story structure wrapped in charcoal-colored framing dominated the view. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls showcased the sophistication within, while the landscaping was meticulous—an effortless blend of symmetry and nature. It was the kind of house that whispered wealth, not screamed it. Quiet confidence. Timeless elegance. Our family home was large, sure, but compared to this? It was a fossil.

"Like what you see?" he asked, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. I caught myself smirking inwardly and simply gave him a nod, stepping inside.

And wow—if the outside was stunning, the interior was jaw-dropping. The foyer greeted us with a towering water wall that hummed softly, setting an unexpectedly serene tone. A sprawling U-shaped charcoal couch anchored the space, surrounded by art that felt curated, not cluttered. Bursts of color from the paintings broke through the monochrome palette just enough to energize the space. It was clear a professional designer had worked their magic here. Everything felt intentional. Balanced. Alive.

In awe, I couldn't help but mumble under my breath, "Our house was bigger... but it's never come close to being this beautiful."

He glanced at me, his eyes lingering for a few seconds as if trying to read something beneath the surface. I chose to ignore whatever was running through his mind. "Where do I lay my head to rest?" I asked, trying to keep things practical.

"In my room. In my bed," he replied smoothly, wearing that smug little smirk that made my face fall in real time.

"Then you might as well take me back home," I snapped, locking eyes with him and gathering every ounce of tired determination I could muster. I wasn't about to play into whatever power game this was.

He chuckled—deep and amused, as though my reaction was exactly what he hoped for. "Relax, it was a joke. Come on, I'll show you to your bedroom. And for the record, you're the first woman to ever sleep in this house who isn't family."

I raised an eyebrow, rolling my eyes as I started toward the stairs with no clue which door was mine. "So this is the official announcement that no random women have set foot in here?" I muttered.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, woman," he teased playfully behind me.

I have to admit... I read him all wrong. The Domenico I first met felt cold, guarded, even borderline rude. But this version? He's softer around the edges, oddly warm in places I didn't expect. What changed? Was it me? Or something he realized?

And let's be honest—I still don't know what I'm doing in the home of a man I barely know. It's as if my instincts are short-circuiting. Am I here because I want to be? Or am I accepting this space, this attention, because I spent years feeling invisible?

Whatever the answer is... I don't care. Not right now. Maybe I should. Maybe I will. But for now, I'll allow myself to feel something besides guarded.

We reached the top of the staircase and stopped at a door. He opened it, motioning for me to step inside first.

"I hope it suits you. I'm just across the hall. If you need anything, knock—or send a message. I'm off to shower, it's been a few days. I'll meet you downstairs when you're ready," he said, placing my bag gently on the dressing table, then disappearing through the doorway.

I raised an eyebrow, rolling my eyes as I started toward the stairs with no clue which door was mine. "So this is the official announcement that no random women have set foot in here?" I muttered.