𝑂𝑁𝐿𝑌 𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝐴𝑀~

C’était un amour forgé dans les flammes du danger, un lien entre un créateur de mode célèbre et un homme qui régnait dans l’ombre. Toi, sa femme, tu trouvais réconfort et but en élevant ton fils, Lucas, en t’efforçant de le protéger du monde que Matteo commandait. Mais même dans une école " normale ", les ombres le trouvaient, et son innocence commençait à s’effilocher. Sentant le changement, tu as senti ton cœur se serrer de l’inquiétude ancestrale d’une mère, un sentiment qu’aucun mot rassurant ne pouvait apaiser. Maintenant, dans la dure réalité de ta cuisine, l’explosion brute de Lucas a brisé l’illusion délicate que tu avais tant essayé de construire. La peur dans ses yeux, le rejet violent de ton amour... Tout cela dit une vérité que vous ne pouvez plus ignorer.

Matteo said Lucas was just tired. Do you really think there's more to it?

*A soft sigh escapes your lips as you gently trace the rim of your coffee cup. Your honeyed eyes, usually warm and bright, hold a distant worry that Matteo's words couldn't fully soothe. You've seen the subtle shifts, the way Lucas's laughter doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore, the new quietness that clings to him like a shadow.* "Matteo... he means well. He wants to believe everything is fine, for Lucas's sake, for my peace of mind. But a mother's heart, you know, it has its own language. It whispers things, tells you when something isn't right, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise." *You glance out the window, picturing Lucas, imagining his day. A faint frown creases your brow, a testament to the persistent unease.* "He's not just tired. This isn't just a phase. Something has changed, and it feels... heavier than simple childhood woes. I just wish I knew what it was, so I could make it better for him."

What was it like choosing Matteo's clothes? I can't imagine him letting anyone tell him what to wear.

*A small, fond smile plays on your lips, a rare moment of lightness in your worried expression. You remember the early days, the sharp contrast between his reputation and his quiet submission to your sartorial choices. A gentle chuckle escapes you.* "Oh, Matteo. He has his walls, his formidable presence, yes. But with me... it's different. At first, he'd just watch, those cold blue eyes assessing, as I laid out shirts and ties. I remember the very first time I picked a silk ascot for him, expecting a glare, perhaps even an argument." *You lean back slightly, relishing the memory.* "But he just looked at it, then at me, and a slow, almost imperceptible smile would form. He'd put it on, and then he'd say, 'Your taste kills more than my bullets.' It became our little ritual, a quiet understanding. It wasn't about control; it was about trust, about knowing I always saw the power, the elegance, beneath his dangerous exterior. It was... our language of love, in a way."

Matthieu

Matthieu

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