Abby’s POV
His words snapped me back to reality.
And with that reality came a sudden, sharp awareness…
a hard, growing ridge pressing insistently into my center.
My mouth went dry, and a small, involuntary moan escaped my lips.
My face flamed.
“Oh, god,” I gasped, scrambling off his lap so fast I nearly fell, retreating to the safety of my own passenger seat.
He let out a low, rough sigh, a smirk playing on his lips as he nonchalantly shifted, placing a hand on his lap.
Hiding the evidence.
“My bad,” I muttered, brushing my hair from my face, my heart hammering.
I gave him a nervous smile.
“Where were we?”
He was infuriatingly calm.
“The marriage thing.”
“Oh. Right.” I cleared my throat, desperate to get back on solid, professional ground.
“Yes.
We can make it public, or if you’d rather keep it quiet, that’s fine by me—”
“Whatever works for you,” he cut in, all business again.
“If you need anything, just tell me. If I can help, I will.”
Truthfully, I figured Matteo probably wouldn’t need my help anyway.
He had his own pull, even in our last life.
“Also,” I added, “even after we’re married, I’ll still be staying at the Sinclair house.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“We’re not living together?”
“I promised my grandpa that once it’s all taken care of, I’ll go work at Sinclair Group,” I explained.
He just shrugged.
“No problem on my end.”
Seeing that, I finally let out a breath of relief.
“What about you?
Any conditions you want to lay out now?”
“Not really.
But…” he leaned in slightly closer from his seat, his voice low and teasing again.
“Abby, when are we getting that certificate, hmm?”
But when did he start calling me Abby?
His drawn-out tone stirred something inside me, making my heart skip a beat.
My cheeks, which had just cooled down, flushed faintly again.
“I’m free now,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
“We can go whenever you’re ready.”
He gave a short, thoughtful hum, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.
“Left my registration book at home.”
“Me too,” I said, my mind already shifting to logistics.
“How about I head home and get mine? I can wait for you at the entrance to the civil affairs bureau.” I looked at him, seeking confirmation.
“Alright,” he said, the engine rumbling to life.
“So you want to get married at midnight, huh?”
I laughed softly and nodded.
“Yeah. Never been better.” I gave him a playful wink before we drove off.
He dropped me at the gates, and I ran inside.
Just as I’d thought, the house was dead silent.
They were all still out, probably busy trying to contain the explosion I’d set off at Nicholas’s “press conference.”
Perfect.
I ran up to my room, grabbed my passport and the other documents I needed, and was back outside in less than two minutes, practically flying down the steps.
I slipped back into the passenger seat of the waiting Maybach, my heart hammering with a strange, giddy adrenaline.
He glanced over at me, “Ready?”
I took a deep breath, clutching the documents to my chest.
“Ready.”
He didn’t drive to his home.
Instead, he pulled up in front of a sleek, towering skyscraper: Romano Holdings.
He was out of the car and back in what felt like sixty seconds, holding a file of his own.
“I made a call,” he said, pulling away from the curb, his voice calm, as if we were just heading to a late dinner.
“Someone is waiting to attend to us, even at this hour.”
We drove on, heading for the bureau of civil affairs, to get married in the middle of the night.
He was right.
When we arrived at the bureau, a single, tired-looking man was waiting for us, his office clean and lit by a humming fluorescent light.
There were no flowers.
No music.
No witnesses, other than this one official who looked like he’d rather be in bed.
And just two consenting adults agreeing to get married at midnight.
The man cleared his throat and started reading in a flat, droning voice.
“Do you, Abigail Hayes Sinclair, take this man…”
Suddenly, the words blurred.
My 25-year-old self was screaming, This is insane, but my 20-year-old mouth just moved.
When he paused for my answer, I heard my own voice, calm and steady.
“I do.”
After we both said our parts and signed the papers, I thought it was finished.
But the man gave us a small, tired smile.
“Well… you may kiss the bride.”
Shit.
This was our only witness.
We had to make it look real, or he could be the first to gossip that this was just a cold, hollow transaction.
Matteo turned to me.
He leaned in, and I braced myself.
His lips were hot.
It wasn’t hesitant or gentle; it was immediate and firm.
Then, I felt the ghost of his tongue—a silent, shocking demand.
My 25-year-old self took over.
Sell it, Abby.
So I did.
I didn’t just stand there.
I kissed him back.
But I didn’t meet his intensity.
I made it tender, a soft, believable press of my lips against his, a convincing performance for our audience of one.
After a long moment, I pulled back and gave Matteo a small, sweet smile, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
See?
No big deal.
It’s just a kiss.
And that’s when I saw his expression.
He looked…
stunned.
Genuinely floored.
Not by the kiss itself, I realized, but by my reaction.
He was probably expecting the 20-year-old girl to blush, or tremble, or look away in a panic.
Then the official handed us our copies, and just like that, it was done.
We walked out of office and down the long, empty hallway, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the midnight silence.
I glanced sideways at the tall, imposing stranger who was now, legally, my problem.
“Can you give me a ride home… husband?”