Chapter 3: Ghosting the Golden Boy
The first sliver of grey light found the crack between the floor-to-ceiling curtains, a blade cutting across the rumpled dark sheets. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, the empty bottle of water on the nightstand, and the sleeping form of Matteo Rossi.
He was on his stomach, one arm flung out across the space where you had been. The definition of his back, the tattoo that curled over his shoulder blade, all of it was softened in the pale dawn. He looked younger in sleep, the tension he carried in his jaw finally released. Peaceful.
You watched him from the doorway, already dressed, the hem of your dress still damp from being dropped on the floor last night. Your shoes were in your hand. His shirt—the soft, dark cotton one he’d peeled off and tossed aside—was clutched in your other fist. You’d picked it up from the floor, pressing it to your face once, inhaling the fading scent of him, of the night, before knotting it loosely in your grip.
No note. No number scrawled on a pad. No trace.
It felt like the only clean move in a game you hadn’t agreed to play. Last night was a closed circle—the club, the elevator, the glass, his mouth, the city lights painting your skin. The photo Marco had called about was out there now, spinning its own narrative. Adding your name, your number, your morning-after confusion to that story felt like handing them the next chapter. You wouldn’t.
The penthouse was utterly silent. Your bare feet were soundless on the cool concrete as you padded back through the vast living space. The city through the windows was a muted, blue-grey sculpture, the furious sparkle of the night before bled into a calm, pre-dawn hush. You paused, looking out at the silhouette of the Vittoriano. For a second, the memory of his hands on you against this very glass flashed, hot and immediate. You shoved it down.
The elevator required a keycard. You’d seen him slip it into a shallow dish on the entryway table last night. You found it, a simple black rectangle, and swiped it. The doors opened with a soft chime that sounded deafening in the silence. You stepped in, turning as they closed, your last view the empty, majestic space, the rumpled bed just visible down the hall, and his still-sleeping form.
The descent was swift and silent.
The lobby was a cavern of polished travertine, empty except for a lone, bleary-eyed concierge behind a vast desk. He glanced up, saw a disheveled woman in last night’s dress holding a man’s shirt and her shoes, and immediately found something very important to look at on his monitor. You pushed through the heavy brass doors and the Roman morning hit you.
The air was cool and damp, smelling of wet stone and distant coffee. The cobblestones glistened under the nascent light, slick from a rain that must have fallen while you were upstairs. You slipped your shoes on, the stones cold and uneven beneath the thin soles.
You walked without direction. The city was just waking up. A shopkeeper hosed down the sidewalk in front of his shuttered café. A delivery van rattled over the stones. Somewhere, a church bell began to toll, the sound echoing down the narrow, empty street. You hugged his shirt to your chest, the cotton the only warmth against the morning chill.
Sunlight, sharp and accusing, stabbed across Matteo’s face. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey and regret. The other side of the bed was cold. Empty.
He lay there for a full minute, letting the fact settle in. The silence in the penthouse was absolute, heavier than before. He pushed himself up, the sheet pooling around his waist. The indentation of your head was still on the pillow next to his. He placed his hand on the spot. Cold.
“Fuck,” he muttered to the empty room.
He got up, naked, and walked out into the living area. No note on the table. No scrawled number on the glass by the sink. His discarded shirt was gone from the floor. He checked the bathroom, the walk-in closet, as if you might be hiding there. Nothing.
A slow burn started in his chest. It wasn’t anger, not quite. It was a prickling, unsettling sense of being… left. He was the one who left. He was the one who had the early training, the press conference, the life that required exit strategies. Not this.
His phone, facedown on the nightstand, buzzed. He snatched it up. Izzy.
He answered, voice gravel. “What.”
“Are you alone?” Her voice was taut, professional, devoid of its usual sarcastic warmth.
He looked around the silent, sun-washed penthouse. “Yes.”
“Good. We need to talk damage control. The picture’s everywhere. Corriere dello Sport, TMZ, the lot. ‘Rossi’s Roman Rendezvous.’ They don’t have an ID on her yet, but they will. They’re digging. The angle is… possessive. You look intense.”
Matteo walked to the window, looking out at the now-bright city. He remembered the feel of your skin against the glass, the reflection of the lights in your eyes. “I was intense.”
Izzy sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. “Matteo. This isn’t a joke. The board is already making noises. Your ‘family man’ endorsement deals are twitchy. We need a statement. A carefully worded, ‘we’re just friends, nothing to see here’ statement.”
“We’re not friends,” he said, the words coming out flat.
A beat of silence. “What?”
“We’re not friends. I don’t even know her last name.”
Another, longer silence. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“Christ, Matteo.” Papers shuffled on her end. “Okay. New plan. We say nothing. Stonewall. You were out with a friend, privacy was violated, blah blah. We lean into the indignation. But you need to be prepared. If they find her, and she talks…”
“She won’t.” He said it with more certainty than he felt.
“How do you know? You don’t even know her name!”
He didn’t have an answer. He just saw you, taking his shirt from the floor. Choosing to vanish into the dawn. Someone who wanted to talk wouldn’t have done that. Would they?
“Just handle it, Izzy,” he said, tired.
“I am handling it. You need to get your head in the game. Training in two hours. Be unflappable. Be bored by the questions. Smile that empty, charming smile. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” He ended the call.
He stood at the window for a long time, the phone dead in his hand. The city was fully awake now, bustling, noisy, alive. Somewhere down in that maze of streets and sunlight, you were walking. Had you gotten a cab? Were you having coffee? Were you smelling his shirt and remembering the way he’d made you come against the glass?
The burn in his chest tightened. He turned away from the view, a sharp, restless energy taking hold. He strode to the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go, standing under the brutal spray as if it could scour the night—and the peculiar hollowness of the morning—from his skin.
Later, dressed in clean training gear, he paused at the elevator. He looked back at the empty penthouse, his gaze landing on the sleek leather sofa, the spot on the floor where your dress had been. He remembered your question in the dark: Does it matter?
He touched the keycard in his pocket, the metal cool. Then he stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed, sealing away the silence. The only thing left was the faint, imagined scent of your perfume on his shirt, which was now miles away, folded in your bag, the only proof any of it had happened at all.