The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

He nodded and she walked back over and sat down, spending the next five minutes flicking slowly through the pictures. He couldn’t speak—only watch as his sister went through the same experience that he had. When she reached the last page she closed the album and held it close to her chest. She stayed that way for a few seconds then stood up and walked over, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for going back to the house and finding this for me.”

Her swollen stomach was pressed against him and her baby decided to give a little kick. He jumped back in surprise as Brianna smiled and put her hand on her stomach.

“My little one is grateful too. Now, he or she gets to see pictures of their past. Pictures of the people we love.”

Matteo gave a slow nod. He knew she was right. But everything just seemed so raw right now. Brianna stepped forward again. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He felt a chill all over his body. Of course Brianna wasn’t talking about their mother. She couldn’t possibly know. His brain tried to rationalize. “About the album?”

She reached down and picked up the piece of paper. “About this? What did you do to her, Matteo? What did you do to upset the girl who has finally put a little sparkle in your eyes?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. You like her. I know you do. You’ve been different these past few weeks.”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m different because I have things to deal with. We have two houses to sell.”

Brianna gave a nod of acknowledgement. “We have. And I thought you might find this stressful. You were the oldest. You saw much more than Vittore or I did. But...” she looked up at him “...you’ve been better than I thought.” She took the crumpled paper from his hand. “And I think it’s because of this. I think it’s because of her.” She glanced at the figure at the bottom again and smiled and shook her head. “And it looks like you better start apologizing soon. Otherwise it will be a very long flight to Rome.”

* * *

Phoebe looked around. She’d thrown herself into finishing this place, bringing down some clothes from her apartment and even spending the last few nights here. She’d hired extra staff and yet another cleaning crew to achieve everything she wanted.

The last person had left half an hour ago. So, she’d taken some time to shower and change out of her grubby clothes into something bright, something fresh, and probably far too cold for a winter’s day. But Phoebe didn’t care. There was a paycheck on the horizon. Her bright yellow dress was a signal of triumph.

The drapes were hung, the light fittings all changed, the beds remade. The recovered chairs and sofas were exquisite. The leather was soft and tactile, the muted shades suited the rooms perfectly. All the finishing touches were in place. The lamps, the vases, cushions and throws. New prints and mirrors hung on freshly painted walls and light streamed in every window.

She walked from room to room, lighting candles along the way. Orange and lemon in the main rooms, clean linen candles in the bedrooms, and lavender and rose in the newly finished kitchen. She wiped a cloth across the deep white Belfast sinks. They were gorgeous. Just perfect in the old-style kitchen.

There was an aura about this place. Something special. She’d felt it the moment she’d arrived. And now, finally, she was finished.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at it a few seconds. The realtor had already visited this morning, measuring rooms and taking hundreds of photos. Her overeagerness at the possibility of a sale was palpable. Phoebe looked around. How much would a place like this be worth? It had to be over fifty million dollars. It had to be.

Everyone had left now. She was entirely alone. The scented candles started to gently fill the air around her. She drifted back down the corridor to the main entrance and that gorgeous atrium and curved staircase.

Images floated into her mind of her favorite childhood cartoon movie. She started to hum one of the tunes and dance a little around the bottom of the stairs. All she needed was a yellow ball gown. Her yellow dress only reached her knees, but it was floaty enough. She lifted her hands as if she had a magical partner and started to waltz around as the humming changed to singing. Phoebe had never really been a singer, but who could hear? Right now, this was her palace. In here, her mother had never been sick. There were no bills. Jason had never died.

She started to dance up the stairs. That was the favorite part of the movie for her. She didn’t need a partner. It was much easier if it was all just in her head. She’d probably never get the chance to do something like this again. She was going to just enjoy every minute.