The room smelled of paint-rich, sharp, and lingering in the air, mixing with the faint scent of lemons from the tray I carried. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting a soft golden hue over the chaos of the nursery-in-progress.
Magazines lay strewn across the ground, pages curling slightly at the edges from where they'd been flipped through too many times. My gaze caught one in particular, the glossy cover showcasing a photo of Valentino-sharp-jawed, impossibly composed, eyes cold yet compelling beneath the bold headline:
Rossi Heir is secretly Married
I smiled.
The past few months had been a storm, but now, after his final confrontation with his family-after Antonio's expulsion from the bloodline-Valentino seemed... lighter.
He moved with a quiet certainty, no longer weighed down by the invisible chains of vigilance. Gone was the rigid tension of a man bracing for the next unseen blow, the tightness in his shoulders that spoke of sleepless nights and unrelenting battles. Instead, there was something softer in the way he carried himself-an ease that felt almost foreign, as if, for the first time in too long, he was allowed to simply exist.
For once, he looked his age. Not a man hardened by conflict, not a strategist calculating the next move, but a man unburdened-if only for a fleeting moment. It was as if the storm that had raged around us for so long had finally stilled, the ever-present weight of those who conspired against us settling into a temporary lull.
The silence wasn't uneasy. It wasn't the kind that came before another strike.
No, this was different.
It was the kind of peace that one almost didn't recognize until it was already there.
Setting the tray of pink lemonade on the side table, I stepped further into the room, taking in the sight before me.
The nursery was taking shape. The accent wall, the one he had insisted on splattering in pink, stood half-finished, a beautiful mess of deliberate chaos.
There, in the midst of it all, was Valentino-the Valentino Rossi, a man who stood above empires, held nations in his palm, dictated the tides of wealth and power-standing barefoot in grey joggers and a white t-shirt, his dark curls disheveled and streaked with paint. His glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose as he focused on painting the edges of the wall with meticulous care.
