Page 33 of When Love Changes Everything

"Are you out of your mind?" he mutters, his voice harsh but barely audible. A few moments tick by, heavy with silence. "Why am I whispering?" he says, a sharp edge to his tone. "Maybe because it's the middle of the night." Whoever is on the other end of that line clearly has a lot to say.

"It's none of your business. No. I don't owe you anything!" His words are laced with frustration, and I can tell I missed a lot of the conversation. I watch as he ends the call, and he drops the phone on the nightstand.

"Who was that?" I whisper, hoping my tone sounds calm.

"No one important,hermosa," he murmurs as he slips back into bed. The warmth of his body brushes against mine. "Go back to sleep," he whispers.

I turn to face him, my fingertips grazing his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my touch. The tension in his voice melts away as he pulls me into his arms, enveloping me in a tenderness that calms my fears and makes me feel safe.

He lowers his head and whispers in my ear, "Let me love you, Annalisa."

And for the first time in my life, that name—myname—sounds like a beautiful melody to my ears.

***

I open my eyes, the morning light spilling into the room. My hand reaches for Mateo, but the space beside me is empty, the sheets cool except for a faint trace of lingering warmth. My gaze falls on a note resting on the nightstand, his familiar handwriting scrawled across the paper:Hermosa, went for a run. Love you.

A soft sigh escapes me as I press my face into his pillow, the scent of his cologne clinging there, just like on my skin. I can still feel his arms wrapped around me throughout the night. A sweet reminder of the promises we exchanged in the quiet darkness—veiled in whispers, sealed with kisses, and made unshakable through the language of love.

After a quick shower and getting ready for the day, I make my way to the kitchen to make breakfast. But as soon as I step inside, my eyes fall on a dozen roses in a stunning arrangement, their vibrant petals a striking contrast against the kitchen's white countertop. I walk closer and breathe in their scent as it fills the air and see a small card nestled among them.

I pick it up and smile as I read the words, each one sweet and full of promise.

Hermosa,

Thank you for trusting me with your heart.

I will treasure it and work every day to keep it safe.

I love you more than words could ever say.

Mateo

"I believe you, Mateo," I whisper as I inhale the sweet scent of one of the blooms. "I believe you."

For breakfast, I prepare egg-white omelets with bell peppers, tomatoes, spinach, and avocado, while the faint sound of my humming fills the kitchen—a love song I didn’t even realize was on my lips. Just as I'm sliding each omelet onto a plate, Mateo walks in. I can tell he's been to the gym. His dark hair is still damp from a shower. His muscles are defined under a simple T-shirt and jeans. No one wears casual clothes like he does—he looks incredible, magnetic.

"Hola,hermosa," he greets me, his voice low. He pulls me into his arms. His embrace is warm, his scent intoxicating, and when his lips meet mine, I get lost in the taste of him, the comfort of his arms. In that moment, he makes me feel cherished and fills me with an unwavering trust in the love we’re building.

"Thank you for the flowers," I murmur, my voice soft as my fingers trace the back of his neck.

He smiles, his gaze never leaving mine. "Thank you for loving me," he says, as if the words hold his entire world.

We stand there for a few moments, gazing into each other’s eyes, silently acknowledging the depth of what we shared last night—everything it meant, everything we are to each other.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over me.

I nod, smiling softly, before I notice his expression turn serious. "I’m sorry about the phone calls," he adds, his tone carrying a slight edge.

"Who was it?" I ask, bracing myself for the same vague answer as before, but this time, there’s a shift in his demeanor. Something more guarded.

"It was Marian," he says cautiously, the words hanging between us like a heavy stone.

"Marian?" I ask, incredulity creeping into my voice. "Why would she call you in the middle of the night? What did she want? How does she even have your number?" The questions tumble out before I can stop them, and too late I realize how I must sound—like a jealous, irrational girlfriend.

"I'm sorry," I add quickly, my voice softening. "It’s none of my business."

"Hermosa," he says, his tone gentle. "You're my fiancée. Soon you’ll be my wife. My business is your business."

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