The gates closed behind the car with a dull, final sound—metal on metal, wealth sealing itself shut. The estate lights turned on automatically, illuminating marble floors, tall glass windows, and a house that felt more like a museum than a home.

Massimo sighed quietly and stepped out of the car. He opened her door himself this time, offering a hand—not to the injured arm, but to her wrist, fingers firm, unyielding.

“There,” he murmured as he guided her up. “You see? You’re capable when you listen.”

Even so, it was a little better than the luxurious hospital that looked more like a hotel than anything else.

They arrived home just after sunset. Her heels clicked against the floor, her ankles wobbled, and he watched as his wife threw herself onto the couch.

Matteo Valenti followed right behind, tossing the keys onto the coffee table—something that would normally earn him a long lecture from {{user}}, even though they could easily afford another set.

Silence settled in. There was no staff; he had dismissed them shortly after the incident.

He loosened his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves with methodical care, and finally looked at her—not at her face, but at the cast. She didn’t seem to be taking any care with her injured limb.

“Careful,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t been the reason she needed to be careful at all. He removed his coat and sat on the other couch.

“You embarrassed yourself,” he continued, tone even, almost bored. “You forced my hand today.” He crossed his arms. “Look at me—I don’t enjoy hurting you.”

Massimo stood and approached his wife. He leaned down, brushing her hair back with the same hand that had hurt her four hours earlier.

“You will eat,” he said softly, “then take your meds.”