CHAPTER 5

Her eyes burned. “What do you think of yourself, Matteo?”

Something in Matteo snapped—not loudly. Internally.

Panic flooded him.

“N–no,” he stammered, hands lifting instinctively, like he was warding off a blow. “I—I didn’t mean to. I was just working, I—I didn’t know you wanted to talk.”

His voice shook. Badly.

“Look,” he rushed on, moving toward the table, desperate. “I made your favourite food. I—I never tried to replace anyone. I swear. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I—I’m sorry.”

Giulia laughed—short, ugly.

“Shut up.”

The word landed like a slap.

Matteo stopped mid-step.

His shoulders folded inward, years of habit dragging him down. His gaze dropped to the floor, eyelashes trembling.

“I… I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he whispered.

So quiet it almost disappeared.

Giulia stared at him—this grown man shrinking in front of her, apologizing for wounds he hadn’t caused, begging without asking for anything back.

For a second—just one—something wavered in her chest.

Then anger won.

“Stop acting like the victim,” she snapped, turning away. “You always do this.”

She left.

The door slammed.

Matteo stood there alone, hands clenched at his sides, heart racing like he’d survived something violent. He looked at the untouched food. Slowly sat down.

And for the first time—

He didn’t cry.

He just sat there, staring, wondering when being careful had started to feel this much like punishment.

Alessandro walked in ten minutes later.

Not because he’d rushed.

Not because he cared.

Because routine had carried him home.

The first thing he noticed was the silence.

Not the normal, obedient quiet of the house—but the after silence. The kind that comes when something has already shattered and the dust hasn’t settled yet.

The dining room smelled of food.

Untouched.

Matteo sat at the table, hands folded in his lap, posture too straight. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t waiting.

He was… still.

Alessandro stopped.

That alone was rare.

“What happened?” he asked.

Neutral. Controlled. CEO voice.

Matteo looked up slowly, as if the movement itself cost him something. His eyes were dry. That unsettled Alessandro more than tears ever would have.

“Nothing,” Matteo said automatically.

A lie so old it sounded sincere.

Alessandro’s gaze moved—to the extra plate. Giulia’s favourite meal. Cold now.

“Giulia,” Alessandro said, not a question.

Matteo hesitated. Just a fraction too long.

“She was upset,” he said carefully. “I think I… I made her feel ignored.”

Alessandro frowned. “You?”

Matteo nodded, small. Guilty. Apologetic for existing.

“I didn’t mean to,” he added quickly. “I was distracted. I should have noticed.”

Alessandro stepped closer.

He’d seen Matteo afraid before. He’d seen him compliant. Soft. Hopeful.

This was different.

This was withdrawn.

“You didn’t raise your voice,” Alessandro said.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was observation.

“No,” Matteo replied.

“You didn’t defend yourself.”

Matteo’s fingers tightened in his lap. “I didn’t think it would help.”

That answer landed wrong.

Alessandro looked around the room as if expecting evidence—broken glass, overturned chairs, something visible.

But the damage wasn’t loud.

It was seated at his table, apologizing for wounds he hadn’t caused.

“Where is she?” Alessandro asked.

“Her room.”

Alessandro nodded once.

Then—unexpectedly—he sat down.

Across from Matteo.

That had never happened without a reason.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“You’ve changed,” Alessandro said finally.

Matteo stiffened. Panic flickered—fast, practiced.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

There it was.

Alessandro felt it then. Sharp. Uncomfortable.

Not anger.

Guilt—unwanted, invasive.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Alessandro said.

Matteo looked up, confused. Truly confused.

Silence stretched.

Alessandro glanced at Matteo’s hands. They were trembling—just barely.

And suddenly, the words Mikhail had thrown at him came back:

You’re losing him quietly.

Alessandro stood.

“Eat,” he said, too abruptly. “You haven’t touched your food.”

Matteo nodded. Picked up his fork. Forced a bite.

Alessandro turned toward the stairs—toward Giulia’s room.

Halfway there, he stopped.

“Matteo.”

Matteo looked up instantly. Waiting.

Alessandro hesitated.

The apology sat in his throat like a foreign object.

Instead, he said, “You don’t need to apologize for everything.”

Matteo blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

And Alessandro realized—too late, maybe—that this house hadn’t just hurt Matteo.

It had trained him.

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