Chapter 2 - The Woman Mateo Wasn't Expecting
Three nights later, Adelaide stood beneath a chandelier in Mateo Moretti’s Beacon Hill library while three strangers silently evaluated the daughter Rockford Jones had delivered.
She knew exactly what they saw.
Thick black-framed glasses.
A conservative olive-green dress buttoned to her throat.
Brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder.
A leather handbag gripped in both hands.
And the scar.
People always reached the scar eventually.
Some tried not to stare.
Others stared and then pretended they had not.
Mateo Moretti did neither.
He sat behind an enormous walnut desk, one ankle resting over his opposite knee. His white shirt was open at the collar beneath a black vest. Dark tattoos disappeared beneath his rolled sleeves. He looked less like the monster Boston society had described and more dangerous because he did not seem interested in proving anything.
Adelaide's father stood beside her.
Rockford had spent the entire drive warning her.
Don't provoke him.
Don't discuss the missing money.
Don't mention Chloe unless he asks.
Most importantly, don't embarrass me.
That last instruction had almost made Adelaide laugh.
Mateo finally rose.
He was taller than she expected.
“Which daughter is this?”
Rockford swallowed.
“My eldest. Adelaide.”
Something changed in Mateo's eyes.
Not disappointment.
Recognition.
“You were told I expected Chloe,” he said.
Rockford shifted. “Your message requested one of my daughters.”
“I know what my message said.”
His voice remained quiet.
That was worse than anger.
Rockford tried a nervous smile. “Adelaide is exceptionally—”
“Mr. Jones.”
Mateo's gaze never left Adelaide.
“Wait outside.”
Rockford blinked.
“I think I should—”
“Outside.”
One of Mateo's men opened the library door.
Rockford left.
For the first time in Adelaide's life, her father obeyed someone without negotiating.
The door closed.
Adelaide expected Mateo to circle her like merchandise.
Instead, he returned to his chair.
“Sit.”
She remained standing.
“I'd rather not.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Why?”
“Because everyone has been ordering me around for three days. I'd like to preserve one meaningless decision for myself.”
Silence.
Then something almost impossible happened.
Mateo smiled.
Barely.
But she saw it.
“You're not frightened enough,” he said.
“I'm terrified.”
“You don't look terrified.”
“I've had practice looking fine when I'm not.”
That erased his smile.
His gaze moved briefly to her scar.
Adelaide braced herself.
Instead, Mateo asked, “Do you know why you're here?”
“My father lost fifteen million dollars.”
“Stole.”
Her fingers tightened around her handbag.
“He says it was an investment loss.”
“He's lying.”
“You seem confident.”
Mateo opened a drawer and placed a folder on the desk.
Adelaide hesitated before approaching.
Inside were bank transfers.
Shell corporations.
Wire confirmations.
Dates.
Signatures.
Rockford's signatures.
She read faster.
Five million routed through Delaware.
Four through a consulting company registered to Evelyn.
Another three transferred to a fund connected to—
Adelaide stopped.
“Whitmore Strategic Holdings.”
Mateo watched her.
Her eyes rose slowly.
“Preston's family?”
“Now you're paying attention.”
Preston Whitmore.
Chloe's fiancé.
The polished political heir her family considered too important to risk.
Adelaide looked through the documents again.
“Why would my father move your money to Preston?”
“That's what I intend to discover.”
“And marrying Chloe accomplishes that?”
“Marriage wasn't my idea.”
She froze.
Mateo leaned back.
“Your father proposed it.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
“No.”
“He offered Chloe as collateral when I refused another extension.”
Adelaide remembered the drawing room.
The champagne.
The laughter.
The elaborate discussion about Mateo's demand.
Every word had been theater.
Her father had lied.
“Why accept?”
“Because people reveal themselves when they believe they're protecting something valuable.”
Mateo's eyes settled on her.
“Your father believed Chloe was valuable.”
The implication landed cleanly.
“And me?”
“He sent you because he believed you weren't.”
Adelaide's throat tightened, but she refused to look away.
Mateo stood.
“I have one question.”
“If it's whether I'm offended, save your breath.”
Another flicker of amusement.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Would you marry me to save him?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Mateo seemed surprised.
Adelaide finally released her handbag.
“My father sat silently while my sister joked that you might kill me. My stepmother laughed. Then they dressed me up and delivered me here hoping you'd feel insulted enough to cancel the arrangement.”
She pushed the financial records toward him.
“So no, Mr. Moretti. I wouldn't marry you to save him.”
“Mateo.”
“What?”
“If you're refusing to marry me, you can at least use my first name.”
Despite herself, Adelaide almost smiled.
“Fine. Mateo.”
He came around the desk.
“But perhaps you're asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
“Why haven't I rejected you?”
Adelaide's pulse jumped.
There it was.
The humiliation she had expected.
She lifted her chin.
“If you want to inspect my face more closely, go ahead. Everyone else does.”
Mateo went completely still.
“Your face?”
“My scar.”
He stared at her for several seconds.
Then he did something no one had done since she was a child.
He looked genuinely confused.
“Adelaide, I haven't rejected you because of your scar.”
“Then why?”
“I haven't rejected you at all.”
Her breath stopped.
From the hallway came the muffled sound of Rockford pacing.
Mateo stepped closer.
“I remember you.”
She frowned.
“We've never met.”
“Yes, we have.”
“No.”
“Seventeen years ago.”
Her fingers went cold.
Mateo continued.
“Massachusetts General Hospital. Pediatric trauma floor.”
The handbag slipped slightly in Adelaide's hands.
After the accident.
After her mother's death.
She remembered almost nothing except pain, white ceilings, and a boy sitting outside her room one night.
A dark-haired boy with blood on his shirt.
He had given her a silver saint medal because she would not stop crying.
Adelaide stared at Mateo.
“No.”
His eyes softened.
“I wondered for seventeen years what happened to the little girl with the green eyes.”
He reached beneath his shirt.
A silver chain appeared.
Hanging from it was half of a tiny broken medal.
Adelaide stopped breathing.
She had the other half.
At home.
Locked inside her mother's jewelry box.
Mateo looked toward the closed library door.
“Your father didn't send me the daughter I wanted.”
May you like
His gaze returned to her.
“He sent me the one I've been looking for.”
