Charlotte's POV
Mateo wore a helmet and a black jacket, leaning casually against a deep red Ducati Scrambler. He lifted the helmet off, his hair tousled by the wind, revealing a familiar face—only more determined than I remembered.
He smiled at me, as if he knew I was standing on the edge of a battle, yet had already chosen to be on my side.
"That can't be yours," I said as I approached, my tone half-questioning.
"You're right," he said, patting the seat. "I won it in a ride raffle at the motorcycle club — 24 hours of use."
He winked at me. "You're today's lucky spectator."
I couldn't help but laugh. For the first time, my chest felt light, not weighed down by duty or obligation, but filled with fresh air.
"So, you're sure I'll come with you?"
"I'm not sure," he shrugged, "but I hope when you decide to run, I'm right there in front of you."
I was stunned.
That one sentence carried more weight than all of Thomas's talks about "stability," "arrangements," and "value." Because Mateo wasn't planning my life—he was waiting for me to choose.
"Put this on." He handed me the second helmet.
"Where to?"
"Anywhere. City outskirts, the beach, desert, under the stars... your call."
I hesitated for a moment. Then, I put on the helmet, switched my phone to aeroplane mode, and tossed it into my bag.
I jumped onto the bike, wrapping my arms around his waist. The engine roared to life again—deep, powerful—a growl and a release all at once.
The wind whipped past my ears, my skirt billowing wildly behind me. The streets blurred away fast; I finally felt like I was breaking free from a suffocating golden cage.
We rode out of the city, following the coastline northward. The sun was dipping low, casting an amber glow over his shoulders. I could see his profile flushed pink from the wind.
"You did something hard today," he said softly, his voice low and steady.
I nodded, the sea breeze brushing my hair across my cheek. "But I feel… I haven't done enough yet."
He paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "What do you mean?"
I took a step closer, closing the space between us until there was nothing but breath.
"I was taught from a young age how to smile, how to sit, how to speak — even how to love," I said, lifting my eyes to meet his. "But now, I don't want to learn anymore. I just want—"
Before I could finish, he kissed me.
It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't tentative. Mateo's kiss was like a dam breaking, an outpouring of all the restrained emotions he'd kept bottled up. His hands cradled my face, firm and insistent, filled with a desperate longing that left no room for resistance — yet he was careful, never pushing me away.
My fingers gripped the collar of his jacket, trembling slightly. His lips moved over mine with fierce urgency, deep and urgent, as if trying to pour all the years of suppressed longing, anger, and hope into this one kiss.
I kissed him back without hesitation. It was as if some invisible seal had shattered between us, and we both knew there was no turning back now.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against mine. My lips were swollen, my breath uneven.
"If you turn away now, I would understand," he murmured, but his eyes betrayed his unwillingness to let go.
"It's too late," I whispered, leaning into his chest. "Charlotte Morgan is not who they think she is anymore."
He chuckled softly and pulled me even closer.
"Good," he whispered in my ear, "because the only version of you I want is this one."
Mateo's POV
The old brass key felt heavy in my palm as I led Charlotte up the creaking wooden stairs of the Riverside Inn. Rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of intimacy that seemed to shut out the rest of the world. The inn was small and rustic, with worn Persian rugs and the faint scent of lavender drifting from sachets tucked into corners.
"Room seven," I said softly, my voice barely audible over the storm outside. "The innkeeper said it has the best view of the river."
I could feel Charlotte's tension as I turned the key, her breathing shallow behind me. This wasn't planned—nothing between us ever was. I'd been driving her home to Beverly Hills after our evening by the ocean, but when the storm hit with sudden ferocity, the winding coastal roads had become treacherous. The inn had appeared like a sanctuary through the sheets of rain, and now here we were, far from the expectations of her world.
The room was simple but charming. A four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in white linen that looked silver in the moonlight streaming through rain-streaked windows. A small fireplace crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls.
"I can sleep on the floor," I offered, running paint-stained fingers through my dark hair—a nervous habit Charlotte had learned to read in the days we'd known each other.
Charlotte set down her overnight bag and turned to face me. "Don't you dare."
Our eyes met across the small space, and I saw my vulnerability reflected in her gaze. I'd always been confident, the passionate artist from Marseille who could capture light and shadow with just a few brushstrokes. But here, in this intimate space, I felt as uncertain as she looked—the Beverly Hills heiress and the struggling painter, two worlds that shouldn't have collided but somehow fit perfectly together.
"Charlotte," I said, her name soft with my Marseille accent. "We don't have to—"
She silenced me by reaching up to touch my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "I know we don't have to. I want to."
I covered her hand with mine, turning my head to press a kiss to her palm. "Tu es sûre, ma belle?"
Instead of answering with words, Charlotte stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. It was soft at first, tentative, but when I responded by pulling her closer, it deepened into something that spoke of months of suppressed longing.
"I've wanted this," she whispered against my lips. "Wanted you. I just didn't think—"
"That I'd want you to?" I cupped her face in my hands, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "Ma chérie, you've been in every painting I've created since the day you walked into my gallery. Every sunset reminds me of the gold in your hair when you let it down from those perfect chignons, every rose of the flush in your cheeks when you forget to be the perfect Morgan daughter."
"You never showed it," she said.
"Ah, but I did," I murmured, trailing kisses along her jawline. "Every brushstroke was for you, ma belle. The Mediterranean blues that match your eyes when you're lost in thought, the warm ochres like your laughter..."
The fire crackled, filling the silence as we simply held each other. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, could smell her perfume mixed with the salt air still clinging to her hair from our evening by the ocean. This woman who'd become my escape from a world that saw me as just another struggling artist, and now...
"Mateo," she said, pulling back to look at me. "This changes everything."
I nodded, my expression serious. "I know. Tu as peur? Your family, they will not approve of—"
"My family doesn't get to choose who I love," she interrupted fiercely, surprising us both with the word that had slipped out. But looking at her, I realized how deeply I felt it too.
I studied her face—this woman who should be afraid. The Morgans had expectations, a reputation to maintain. She'd spent her entire life being the perfect daughter, and here she was, choosing me. But in her eyes, I saw no fear, only determination.
"Non," she said, attempting my language with a smile that made my heart race. "For the first time in years, I'm not afraid of anything."
"Parfait," I whispered, and kissed her again.
This time, neither of us held back. My hands tangled in her hair while hers worked at the buttons of my shirt, fabric falling away like barriers we'd maintained for too long. I lifted her into my arms in one fluid motion, her gasp swallowed by my kiss as I carried her to the bed. The white linen welcomed us as bodies and breath collided, days of suppressed longing finally spilling over in whispered names and racing heartbeats that competed with the rhythm of rain against glass.
When we finally lay entwined beneath the sheets, skin flushed and breathing slowly returning to normal, the storm outside seemed to quiet in reverence. I traced lazy patterns along Charlotte's bare spine, my calloused artist's fingers a stark contrast to the softness of her privileged life.
"I never expected this," I said quietly, my accent thickening with emotion.
Charlotte curled closer to me, her fingertips tracing the strong line of my chest as her head found the hollow of my shoulder. "What did you expect?"
"To spend my life painting other people's dreams," I said. "I never thought the Beverly Hills princess would choose the poor artist from Marseille."
Her breath caught, and I felt something shift between us. "The innkeeper was right," she said softly. "This room does have the best view."
I chuckled, the sound rumbling through my chest. "You can't even see the river from here."
Charlotte lifted her head to look at me, and in the firelight, she looked like one of my paintings come to life. "I'm not looking at the river."
Her words undid me.
Even as her breathing slowed, her body melting against mine like wax near flame, I wasn't ready to let go of her. I didn't want this night to end with stillness—I wanted to burn with her again, until even the storm outside quieted in awe.
I kissed the hollow beneath her collarbone, then lower, tasting salt and skin and something that was purely her. She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair, arching toward me like a flame seeking oxygen.
"Mateo…" she breathed, my name now more plea than word.
I rose above her, watching the way the firelight turned her golden, her hair spilling across the white sheets like something holy and forbidden. Her eyes met mine, wide, hungry, unafraid.
"You're sure?" I asked, even now, even after everything.
She only pulled me down, answering with her body before her lips brushed mine. "Don't stop. Not tonight. I want to feel everything."
I paused for a heartbeat, brushing her hair back from her face.
"If we do this..." I began.
"Then there's no pretending tomorrow," she said, her voice low but sure.
Her fingers trailed down my chest. "So don't ask me to pretend."
That was all I needed. I kissed her like I'd waited years to deserve it—and maybe I had.
This time there was no hesitancy, no careful exploration—only heat, rhythm, need. My mouth devoured her sighs, my hands clutched her like she was gravity, and I was finally falling the right way. She moved beneath me like the tide, wild and relentless, and I matched her stroke for stroke until we weren't two people anymore, but one pulse, one breath, one burning.
Her back arched, her cry lost to my kiss as she shattered in my arms again—and I followed, undone, with her name on my lips like a prayer.
When the silence finally settled, I held her tighter than before, burying my face in her neck as our bodies cooled. The room smelled of sex and rain and woodsmoke, and of something new—something lasting.
"I never believed in forever—until you made it feel real."
I gave her everything tonight.
But come morning, would she still choose me? Or would the fairy tale end when the storm cleared?