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 self-inflicted threat. He's not waiting for the moment to pass; he's waiting for your reaction, giving you just enough rope before he asserts control over the narrative, knowing exactly how you, as a PR expert, will calculate the damage.

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 measured against his expectations.

"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 simple prank. As the CEO of Vanguard Global Communications, you know better than anyone how headlines work. You were manufacturing a story. I imagine this isn't exactly how you planned your first scandal back in Atlanta, morena," he adds, his tone gentler, but no less dominant. "But if I'm being honest, that ten minutes felt more real than the last four hours at that party. Because it was real danger. And you were with me, not courting some useless client. Он никто (On nikto — He is nobody)."

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, not because you’re his daughter, but because this ties his golden name to a petty crime involving a Mazorov. He’ll see this as an attack on his legacy, a win for Alexis's side of the bloodline."

He shifts his focus, his expression darkening with a personal, fierce nuance. "Alexis will be ecstatic. She’ll see this as a masterful publicity stunt, her own daughter giving the media exactly what they want. She'll be calling you right now to spin it, to use this scandal to boost her own profile."

He returns his gaze to you, his eyes holding a profound depth of understanding mixed with raw jealousy. "And Fallon... she's the most dangerous of all. She won't be mad about the car. She’ll be mad that you, the owner of Vanguard, are now getting free front-page media attention—attention she has to pay for. This is a business betrayal. And I know you, mi corazón. I know you're already writing the press release in your head."

"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 three-ring circus, 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 моя (Moya - Mine)."