The house was vast, each step echoing softly against the polished dark wood floors that gleamed under the golden glow of wall sconces. The air carried a faint scent of aged oak and something subtle—perhaps the lingering traces of the expensive cologne Valentino favored, blending seamlessly with the house's own history.
Tall windows, framed by heavy velvet drapes in deep jewel tones, allowed slivers of moonlight to spill onto the floor, casting elongated shadows that danced as we moved. The muted hues of the walls, painted in rich, earthy tones, exuded warmth, their textured surfaces occasionally interrupted by ornate moldings that whispered of old-world craftsmanship.
Vintage fixtures adorned the ceilings, intricate chandeliers that sparkled like fallen stars, their dimmed bulbs casting a soft, ambient glow. Every room we passed was a perfect balance of elegance and comfort—plush furniture in shades of cream and charcoal, accent pieces of brushed gold and mahogany, and shelves lined with books that seemed carefully curated rather than merely decorative.
Despite its grandeur, the house didn't feel sterile or impersonal.
There was a depth to it, a lived-in charm that felt distinctly Valentino. The subtle details—an antique clock ticking rhythmically in the hallway, a decanter of half-poured whiskey resting on a marble side table, an open book abandoned on a tufted armchair—spoke of him, his presence woven into every space.
As we continued walking, I realized that this house, with all its refinement and luxury, was no ordinary place. It was a reflection of him—timeless yet modern, commanding yet intimate. And now, it was ours.
Valentino's golden eyes flickered toward me, catching the unspoken shift in my expression. His gaze, warm and knowing, held the weight of quiet understanding—always attuned to the things I didn't say. A slow, indulgent smirk ghosted over his lips, though there was something softer in it, something unguarded.
