Chapter 26: Unexpected Call
The phone finally stopped vibrating. The silence it left behind was total, a vacuum. You just stared at the ultrasound image on your screen, your thumb over the little blur of life, Matteo’s words underneath burning into your mind. My entire strength begins here.
Your own phone rang again. This time, it wasn’t Izzy. MATTEO. You answered, bringing it to your ear, but couldn’t speak.
“Are you happy?” His voice came through, stripped of its usual effortless confidence. It was just a voice, crackling with a rare, naked anxiety. “Tell me. Say something. The post. Was it too much?”
You blinked. A hot tear escaped, tracking fast down your cheek. You were smiling, but your chest was heaving with a sob you couldn’t contain.
He heard it. The tiny, hitched breath.
“Shit. You’re crying. I’ve made you cry.” Panic sharpened his tone. “I’ll take it down. Right now. It was stupid. A fucking impulsive… I’ll delete it.”
“No!” The word burst out of you, forceful. You pressed a hand to your stomach, as if you could cradle them both through the phone. “No, Matteo. Don’t you dare.”
You took a shuddering breath, your voice dropping to a whisper meant for the dark, for the baby, for him. “Your daddy never follows the rules, little one,” you murmured, your lips almost touching the screen. “He tears them up and makes his own.” You swallowed hard, the truth welling up, unavoidable and terrifying. “I love him so much it terrifies me.”
There was a sharp, static exhale on the other end of the line. Then silence. For three heartbeats, you thought the call had dropped. Then it came: a raw, broken laugh, soaked in relief and something else, something like wonder.
“Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“I need to hear it again. Now. While I’m standing in this fucking sterile hallway with Marco making jack-off gestures at me from the water cooler.”
You laughed, the sound watery and real. “I love you, Matteo Rossi. You impossible, magnificent bastard.”
Another silence, deeper this time. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the Italian accent curling heavily around the words. “Ti distruggerò, amore mio. I will ruin you with how much I love you back. You understand? There is no quota for this. No strategy. They can all burn. You and me and our little light. That’s the only team.”
A clamor of voices erupted behind him. You heard Izzy, sharp and furious. “Rossi! We are on in five! Hang up the phone NOW.”
Matteo ignored her. “They’re calling me. I have to go be princely for the cameras.” His tone shifted, becoming intimate, a secret passed through the chaos. “Stay off your phone. Don’t read the comments. Order more food. Rest. When I’m done, I’m coming back. And I’m not leaving that suite for two days. I’m going to worship every part of you until you forget every name but mine.”
“Matteo!” Izzy’s voice was a blade.
“I have to go. I love you. So much it makes me stupid.” The line went dead.
You sat in the quiet, your hand still pressed to your belly. The world was spinning outside, headlines being written, narratives collapsing and reforming, and you were at the still, silent center of it all.
You did as he said. You ordered a plate of fruit and toast you didn’t touch. You muted your social media notifications. The silence of the suite became a sanctuary. You dozed fitfully on the sofa, the ghost of his promise clinging to your skin.
The keycard clicked hours later. The door opened and shut softly. You stirred, the room now dark, the city lights painting blue and gold stripes across the ceiling.
He was silhouetted against the window, loosening his tie. He’d changed into dark jeans and a soft black tee after the press conference, but he still carried the energy of the stage—a heightened, electric hum. He saw you awake and crossed the room in a few silent strides, kneeling before the sofa so his face was level with yours.
“Hey.” His eyes searched yours, tracing for damage, for regret. “How are you?”
“Sleepy. Good.” You reached out, touched the faint stress line between his brows. “How was it?”
He snorted, leaning into your touch. “A circus. They asked about the post in the third question. Izzy looked like she wanted to stab me with her microphone. I said, ‘Some things are too important for statements.’ They ate it up. Marco made a joke about changing diapers on the sidelines. It was… fine.” He captured your hand, turned it, pressed a kiss to your palm. “It didn’t matter. None of it. All I could think about was your voice saying what you said.”
He moved then, his hands sliding under you, lifting you from the sofa as if you weighed nothing. He carried you to the bedroom, not to the rumpled bed, but to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. He set you on your feet, your back to the cool glass, the entire illuminated city sprawled below your shoulder blades.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low. “Only at me.”
He didn’t kiss you. He just looked, his gaze traveling over your face with a reverence that stole the air from your lungs. Then his hands went to the hem of your sweater, drawing it up and over your head. The cooler air pebbled your skin. He knelt again, his hands on your hips, his face level with your stomach. He pressed his lips there, a long, firm kiss over your navel.
“Ciao, piccola luce,” he whispered, his breath warm through the cotton of your leggings. “Your mamma is very brave. And I am already yours.”
He stood then, and his kiss was finally on your mouth, deep and claiming and sweet all at once. It tasted like espresso and exhaustion and a boundless, unraveling hope. When he broke away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“The world knows now,” he said. “So there’s no more hiding. From them. From each other.” He paused, the next words clearly costing him. “The fear you feel… I feel it too. Every day. That this is too big. That I will break it. That something will take it from me.”
You’d never heard him admit to fear. Not like this. It was more intimate than anything you’d done in this room.
“We won’t break,” you whispered.
“No,” he agreed, the steel returning to his voice. “We won’t.” He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your bare skin meeting the soft cotton of his shirt. He looked over your shoulder, out at the city. “Let them watch,” he murmured, his lips at your temple. “Let them all see what real strength looks like.”
He didn’t move to the bed. He just held you there, in the spotlight of the city, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring drum against your chest, a fortress in the sky, silent and defiant and whole.