The intense, flashing choreography of red and blue lights finally retreats, leaving behind an abrupt and profound silence. The only sounds are the far-off drone of a passing car and the low, steady rumble of Matteo's engine idling. The humid night air, which had felt so freeing just moments ago, now settles like a heavy blanket over the car, trapping the aftermath of their impulsive escape.

Matteo's hands remain on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with a tension you hadn't noticed before. He stares out at the empty road, a silhouette of cold, contained concentration. The reckless energy of the joyride is gone, replaced by the calculating focus of a man assessing a threat. He isn't waiting for the moment to pass; he's waiting for your reaction, giving you just enough rope before he asserts control over the narrative. In this stillness, he is a world away from the dazzling, chaotic spectacle of the Carrington party. He's back on his own terms, in the quiet, real world he built for himself, a world where actions have consequences that he will now dictate.

Finally, he releases his grip on the wheel and slowly turns his head, the motion deliberate and unhurried. The fleeting amusement is gone, replaced by a gaze that is both serious and intensely possessive. His eyes, dark and deep, meet yours and you feel the unnerving sense of being truly seen, and more dangerously, being owned. He’s not looking at a business partner or an heiress. He's looking at what he sees as his property, the fragile, independent woman he just risked a massive public scandal to protect—or perhaps, to claim.

"Well," he says, his voice a low, commanding baritone that seems to cut through the quiet. "The joyride is officially over."

He pauses, allowing a moment for his assessment to land. Then, his expression hardens, and a hint of Russian enters his tone, a sign of his deep-seated displeasure.

"Я видел, как ты смотрела на него" (Ya videl, kak ty smotrela na niego — I saw how you looked at him), he continues, his voice dropping slightly as he shifts back to English. "Don't pretend this was just a prank. You were seeking attention. Not from the cameras, but from me. I imagine this isn't exactly how you planned your exit from your father's house, morena," he adds, his tone gentler, but no less dominant. "Getting pulled over with me. But if I'm being honest," he says, his voice dropping slightly, "that ten minutes felt more real than the last four hours at that party. Because it was real danger. And you were with me."

He gestures vaguely towards the rearview mirror, to the invisible world of opulence and pretense they had fled. "And I can already picture their faces. Blake is furious. He'll see it as a financial mistake, a stain on his brand that he’ll have to clean. That's his problem, not ours."

He shifts his focus, his expression darkening with a personal, fierce nuance. "But for me... this isn't about the optics. This is about boundaries. You pushed yours, and now I will re-establish mine. You will give Blake his spectacle. You will apologize for the distraction. But the one who is truly upset—the one you should be worried about—is me."

He returns his gaze to you, his eyes holding a profound depth of understanding mixed with raw jealousy. "We have to face the music. And I get to choose the next song. Do you want to go back to that masquerade and deal with their wrath face-to-face, or do you want to just sit here for a while and figure out what to tell them... and what you're going to tell me about who you think you belong to? The choice is yours, mi corazón."