The Don’s White Gown

After hanging up, Alessia wiped her tears, gathered her documents, and prepared to leave.

The moment she opened the door, she nearly collided with Matteo.

The fresh marks on his neck and the scent of a perfume that wasn't hers were stark against his tanned skin. Even though she was prepared, knowing what had happened between him and Bianca, her gaze instinctively darted away.

Matteo caught the flicker of her gaze, the way it darted away from the fresh marks on his neck. That, combined with her swollen eyes, told him everything he needed to know.

His tone was firm. "Alessia, whether you like it or not, Bianca and I are together now. I'm going to marry her."

"Since you live here, be respectful to her. And stop this foolishness."

Alessia's voice was steady. "Understood, Mr. Carbone."

He froze.

She hadn't called him that in years. When she first moved in, she’d always called him "Matteo" with a honeyed sweetness. But ever since falling for him, she had refused to say his name at all.

His frown deepened, and he was about to say something when Bianca's voice called out—"Matteo, I brought my luggage! Which room should I take?"

Her voice broke his train of thought, and he turned to wrap Bianca in his arms. "You love the sun. Alessia's room has the best light; it overlooks Lake Michigan. I'll have her move to the guest room—you can take it."

A flicker of triumph flashed in Bianca's eyes, but her voice was falsely modest. "Oh, I wouldn't want to be a bother. Oh, but I'm the one who just arrived. Maybe I should take the guest room?"

She made a show of heading downstairs, but the next second—a gasp.

Matteo had swept her into his arms. "You will be my wife—the mistress of this house. How could you stay in a guest room?"

"But Alessia has lived in that room for so long. Making her move out suddenly... won't that be hard on her?"

Matteo glanced at Alessia, who was still by the door. "She'll get used to it. She needs to accept that I'm getting married, that this house has a mistress now, and that she is merely a guest under my protection."

Alessia's eyelashes fluttered. A self-mocking smile touched her lips.

A guest.

He wasn't wrong. She really was just a guest.

She let out a soft breath. "I'll go pack now."

It didn't matter. Soon she would be gone—back to her father, never to set foot in this place again.

This estate belonged to Matteo and Bianca.

Alessia threw herself into finalizing her travel arrangements, leaving early and returning late—anything to avoid Matteo.

It was no use. The extravagant way he doted on Bianca was impossible to ignore.

Bianca had no appetite, so he flew in a chef from Sicily.

She wasn't feeling well, so he canceled a multi-million-dollar deal to stay by her side.

If she so much as glanced at a piece of jewelry, it would be delivered to her by his own hands within minutes.

Alessia just watched. No tantrums, no tears.

While waiting for her departure to be finalized, she started packing. First, her clothes. Then, every pathetic portrait she had ever painted of him.

And the sketches. Everything went into a box.

She planned to burn it all in the fireplace.

Box in her arms, she turned for the door and collided with his unyielding chest. He was carrying a dessert. Probably for Bianca.

She ignored him and tried to step around.

A sharp pain shot through her wrist. He had grabbed her.

"Have you been avoiding me?"