The Rules of Engagement
Sofia Celestina Lim never liked surprises. In fact, she abhorred them with the kind of polite violence only a well-bred Filipina executive could master. So, when she found herself in Venice, wrapped in silk, sunshine, and an itinerary planned by anyone but herself, it already felt like an ambush. The vacation was a “gift” from her sisters—Samantha, the eldest and annoyingly intuitive, and Sabrina, the baby tornado with a shopping addiction. Between the two of them, they had booked her flights, arranged a five-star hotel suite with a view of the Grand Canal, and packed her luggage down to the underwear choices. Sabrina even labeled the damn outfits—“Day 1: Brunch and Market Stroll. Wear the linen dress. Hair up. Lipstick—nude.”
It was infuriating how they knew her so well.
But it wasn’t just the vacation that made her itch. It was the unspoken command embedded in it: relax, don’t think, don’t plan—just breathe. A horror film, truly.
Sofia sat at the breakfast terrace of the hotel, porcelain cup in one hand, phone in the other, pretending to enjoy the view while compulsively checking her calendar. Samantha had planned a guided culinary walk that afternoon. Four hours of cheese tasting and awkward socializing with tourists who probably didn’t know the difference between a Brie and a Camembert? No, thank you.
So, the night before, in a moment of delightful defiance, she made her own booking. A mixed-group gondola tour. Still touristy, but with less risk of being forced into conversation about wine notes or the beauty of olive oil.
She finished her coffee and adjusted the cuffs of her cream linen blazer—yes, the one Sabrina told her not to wear today—and waited for her ride. The agency sent a driver to pick her up, just as requested. On time. Precise. She appreciated that. Small mercies in this otherwise absurdly spontaneous trip.
Venice was sticky with late spring humidity, the kind that clung to your skin like sweat and secrets. But the city was breathtaking, and even she, the ever-practical COO of Lim Aviation Group, couldn’t help but feel something stir. Wonder, maybe. Or dread. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
The group gathered near the docks, cheerful faces, bright colors, languages mixing in the air like perfume. Sofia stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, oversized sunglasses hiding the disapproval in her eyes. These people clearly knew each other already, probably had taken the same tours, drunk spritzes on the same balconies. That suited her fine. She wasn’t here to bond.
She was here to float.
“Miss Lim?” the coordinator called, clipboard in hand.
She nodded and followed the wave, settling into her place at the back of the group. Her spot was near the tail end of the boarding list, which—thankfully—meant less small talk. She watched the group laugh over an inside joke she didn’t want to know. She exhaled. This was fine. This was peaceful.
Then came the interruption.
A voice—lazy, masculine, and not nearly sorry enough—called out, “Mi scusi! I’m late, I know, but tell me there’s still room for one more heartbreaker?”
Sofia didn’t bother turning. She rolled her eyes instead, mouthing a quiet “perfect” to herself like it was a curse. The group leader, of course, smiled and welcomed the man warmly, as if his tardiness added charm instead of inconvenience.
“Go ahead, Matteo. You’ll ride with...” the guide scanned the clipboard, “Miss Lim.”
Sofia turned, ready to deliver a polite rejection—but then she saw him. And fuck.
He looked like a problem. The tall, broad-shouldered kind. Tousled dark curls. A strong jaw with just enough scruff to suggest both laziness and sex appeal. His eyes were a deep, espresso brown, framed by lashes that should be illegal on a man. And of course, the smirk. Like he was already halfway through undressing someone with his thoughts. Her fingers itched. Not for him—no. For a taser.
“Pretty privilege,” she muttered under her breath as he approached.
Matteo DeLuca caught it. Of course he did.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he grinned, offering his hand. “Matteo.”
“I don’t shake hands with strangers,” she replied flatly, not even looking at him. Instead, she adjusted her sunglasses and walked toward the gondola.
His laugh was low, rich, infuriating. “Even prettier when you’re angry.”
To Sofia’s complete dismay, their gondola was not the group kind with other couples, but a small, more private vessel—romantic, even. It was just her, him, and the gondolier. She considered faking illness. Drowning herself, maybe. But she was a Lim. She didn’t quit things. She endured them.
The moment the gondola pushed off, Matteo began talking. Sofia tuned him out, instead focusing on the ripple of the water, the quiet lapping against the hull. He didn’t seem to mind being ignored. He just kept going—about his business (something to do with imports and investments), about Venice (he claimed he had a local grandmother who made the best lasagna on Earth), about why he hated clocks.
“I don’t wear watches,” he declared, stretching his arms behind his head. “Time’s a prison.”
Sofia glanced at him, lips tight. “Maybe for people who don’t value it.”
That made him pause. Then laugh again, delighted. “Oh, you’re fun.”
“No,” she said simply. “I’m not.”
He leaned in, conspiratorially. “You look like you could be. If you let yourself.”
She wanted to slap him. Or maybe herself, for blushing. The man was insufferable. And he smelled ridiculously good—notes of spice, amber, and expensive choices.
By the time the ride neared its end, Sofia had given up trying to ignore him and instead catalogued every reason why he was the worst. Arrogant. Flirty. Entitled. The type who coasted through life on charm and cheekbones. She hated men like that. No substance. No strategy. Just vibes and venereal disease.
And then he had the audacity to say, “You know, I could make you sleep with me. Probably wouldn’t even need to try that hard.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head, smiling. “You heard me. It’s just a matter of time.”
Sofia saw red. The man was not only attractive and irritating—he was delusional. Narcissistic. Dangerous. And she wanted, more than anything, to prove him wrong.
“You’re disgusting,” she spat.
He shrugged. “Honesty’s just foreplay, baby.”
That was it. She stood as the gondola docked, ready to storm off, but he caught her wrist—not tight, not aggressive, just enough to anchor her.
“Come on,” he said, tone softer now. “Don’t you ever get tired of being in control all the time?”
She yanked her hand away. “Don’t you ever get tired of listening to yourself talk?”
He smiled, maddeningly. “Never. My voice is fantastic.”
She turned and walked, heels clicking furiously against the dock. She heard him chuckle behind her, heard his lazy farewell: “Ciao, Miss Lim. See you when you break your own rules.”
She didn’t look back.
She hated him.
She also hated how warm her skin still felt where he touched her. Hated the little curl of interest sitting traitorous in her stomach. But more than anything, she hated that, for the first time in her over-structured life, someone had made her feel completely out of control—and she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if she let go, just once.
Just. Once.
***
Sofia Celestina Lim had never felt more betrayed by her own instincts. After yesterday’s little detour—a colossal mistake disguised as spontaneity—she was determined to stay on-script. No more improvisations. No more whimsical gondola rides. No more arrogant, sun-kissed men with devilish eyes and reckless mouths.
She blamed Samantha and Sabrina, mostly. They knew her. Knew her love language was structure and peace—not flirtation and emotional arson. Today, she would follow their damn itinerary to the letter, if only to avoid another Matteo-shaped disaster.
Treviso. That was the plan. Sabrina had labeled it as a “Day of Charm and Wine-Tinged Serenity.” Sofia doubted the serenity part, but fine. She dressed accordingly: Sabrina’s suggested white midi-dress, gold flats (because heels were not happening again), and an oversized sunhat that screamed “Instagram wife.” She looked like a tourist. She hated it. But she went.
And for a while—it worked. The bus ride was quiet. The streets of Treviso, while bustling, had the gentle hum of something softer than Venice. She walked the cobblestones alone, guided by the agency’s app. She even managed to enjoy a lemon spritz near the fountain. For the first time in 24 hours, her muscles began to unclench.
Then she heard it.
That voice.
“Lim. Fancy seeing you here.”
She didn’t look up. She sipped her drink. Carefully. Like poison control.
“You know,” Matteo said, casually taking the seat beside her, “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”
Her eye twitched. “You are stalking me.”
He had the audacity to look wounded. “Stalking? Harsh. I’d call it... serendipity.”
“Serendipity implies something pleasant. You’re more like a rash.”
He laughed, throwing his head back. “Admit it, you missed me.”
“I reported you to hotel management.”
“I know. They told me.”
Sofia finally turned, eyebrows lifting. “And you’re still here?”
Matteo spread his hands innocently. “VIP status, baby. They said unless I physically harm you, I’m allowed to exist in your general vicinity. And I’m not touching. Yet.”
“I swear to God—”
“Which one?” he interrupted, eyes gleaming. “Because you strike me as the type who worships Google Calendar.”
“Matteo,” she hissed through gritted teeth, standing up. “I am not in the mood.”
He stood, too, hands shoved in his pockets. “You never are. That’s what makes this fun.”
The rest of the day was hell. Matteo didn’t follow her in a criminal sense—no, he was too clever for that. He simply appeared. At the next café. Outside the church tour. By the gelato stand. Smirking, maddening, and entirely too charming. He never touched her. Never said anything overt. But his presence loomed like heatstroke. The man was everywhere, and she couldn’t shake him.
When she finally returned to the hotel, she nearly kissed the concierge in relief. Matteo had peeled off an hour before, saying something about “letting the mystery build.” She ignored him. She needed a bath. A sedative. Maybe a minor exorcism.
But the nightmare wasn’t over.
Two hours later, she came downstairs to check on her luggage—the staff had promised to bring one of her larger bags up—and there he was.
Matteo. Lounging near the bar. Still there.
“Seriously?” she snapped.
He raised a glass of wine in greeting. “You’re glowing. Was it me?”
That was the last straw.
Sofia marched to the concierge desk and slammed her palm on the counter. “I’d like to file a formal complaint. That man has been following me since yesterday.”
The concierge looked up, confused. “Mr. DeLuca?”
“Yes. Mr. DeLuca.”
The concierge swallowed. “Ma’am, Mr. DeLuca is a long-term VIP guest. He hasn’t violated any rules. He hasn’t entered your room or restricted your movement in any way. If he had done anything illegal—”
“Harassment isn’t illegal now?”
“Miss Lim...” the concierge smiled, apologetic. “He’s only tried to talk to you. I’m very sorry, but we can’t intervene unless there’s an actual breach of safety.”
Sofia was silent.
And then she did what any rational woman on the brink of homicide would do—she checked out of the hotel. At two in the morning. She didn’t even tell her sisters.
Dragging two suitcases and a carry-on, she huffed her way onto the empty stone street, trying to hail a cab.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
She heard the footsteps before she saw the shadow. And before she could react, one of her bags—the one with her passport, her wallet, her laptop—was gone.
She froze.
The thief dashed into the alley with practiced ease, and Sofia stood there, stunned, holding one suitcase and a carry-on. She tried to run. She really did. But she was wearing flats with zero traction and pulling a suitcase that weighed like a dead body. The thief vanished. Gone. Just like that.
“Fuck!” she shouted, breathless.
She turned to the doorman—who shrugged.
She ran back inside, fuming. “My bag was stolen just outside. Someone help—please!”
No one moved.
And then—of course—he appeared.
Matteo stood by the front entrance, his posture alert now, brows knit. He’d seen the whole thing. He didn’t say anything. Just pulled out his phone.
“Wait here,” he told her.
Sofia’s mouth opened in protest, but he was already walking away, tapping out messages in rapid Italian.
Two hours.
That’s how long it took.
Two hours, three espressos, and one full-blown mental breakdown later, two officers came in with her stolen suitcase.
Sofia clutched the bag like a war widow. Everything was still inside.
Everything.
She was shaking.
Matteo sat across from her in the now-empty lounge, one leg crossed, looking as if he’d just finished a casual poker game, not hunted down a thief at 3AM in Venice.
“I don’t owe you,” Sofia said immediately, voice raw.
Matteo tilted his head. “Didn’t say you did.”
“I can pay you.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Dinner.”
Sofia narrowed her eyes. “You’re taking advantage of the situation to get me into bed.”
Matteo didn’t laugh this time.
There was a flicker—just a flicker—of hurt in his face. Something quiet and bruised.
“I’m not,” he said simply. “But if that’s what helps you sleep at night... sure.”
The air between them shifted. Thickened. Not with heat, but tension.
Real tension.
She saw it. Felt it. And then hated herself for it.
Sofia exhaled through her nose. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Dinner.”
Matteo blinked. “Seriously?”
“But I’m also going to sleep with you.”
His eyebrows lifted, mouth parting slightly.
Sofia kept going. “Not because you’re irresistible. Not because I’m charmed. But because I want you off my back, and I don’t like feeling like I owe anyone anything. Not even a thank-you.”
Matteo recovered slowly, and a boyish grin spread across his face. “Well,” he said, voice dipping low, “that was the sexiest declaration of war I’ve ever heard.”
“But,” Sofia snapped, “we do this on my terms. There will be rules.”
Matteo leaned in, elbows on his knees. “I’m listening.”
“We discuss them over dinner.”
He grinned wider. “You know, you’re full of surprises, Miss Lim.”
She stood, dusted herself off, and looked down at him.
“I’m also full of knives, DeLuca. Keep that in mind.”
******
Sofia checked back into the same hotel like she hadn’t just tried to escape it like a woman fleeing a crime scene. The concierge didn’t even blink—he simply welcomed her with a tight smile and a knowing look she’d mentally slap off later. Her limbs were heavy, her nerves raw. She was running on adrenaline and pride, both of which were now leaking out of her in dangerous doses.
She barely made it to her room before collapsing onto the plush bed, suitcase beside her like a war trophy. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her fingers curled into the blanket like it might anchor her to what was left of her sanity.
She had just agreed to sleep with Matteo DeLuca.
What. The. Hell.
The idea had slipped out of her mouth before her brain caught up—her defense mechanism disguised as bravado. Her usual armor of sarcasm and snark had glitched somewhere between “thank you for finding my luggage” and “get the hell off my back.” Now she was stuck with the consequences of her own mouth, and worse—her own curiosity.
Still. She wasn’t reckless.
So she did what she did best.
She canceled every activity planned for the day—goodbye vineyard tour, goodbye watercolor class, goodbye stupid gondola serenade part two. She pulled out her iPad and went straight into Notion, where she created a new folder titled: Rules of Engagement – Emergency Folder – DELETE AFTER USE.
She began typing with the same efficiency she reserved for crisis management back in Cebu.
Rules of Engagement (between Sofia Celestina Lim & Matteo DeLuca):
No kissing on the lips. Any other body part may be engaged if necessary to fulfill mutual desire. Mouths shall only be used for breath and/or consent—not affection.
No talking. Unless it pertains directly to physical cues or safety. No backstory. No pillow talk. No compliments.
This happens once. Not twice. Not a series. This is not a rom-com.
No cuddling. Immediate separation after conclusion of the act is expected. Shared warmth is not an obligation.
She looked over it three times, refined the language, made it sterile and devoid of sentiment. It was perfect. Efficient. Sexy in the coldest way possible. She briefly considered emailing it to her lawyer just for laughs.
By the time dinner came, she was calm. Composed. A queen in armor.
She met him in the hotel restaurant—low lighting, overpriced wine, the kind of music you only heard when someone was trying to seduce you through ambiance alone. He stood when she approached. Of course he did. That boyish glint still in his eyes, like he was both awed and entertained by her.
“Wow,” Matteo breathed, letting his eyes travel down slowly, like he was tasting her just by looking. “You clean up—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” she warned, sliding into her seat like a goddess who did not have time for pleasantries.
He grinned. “Noted.”
The waiter appeared, took their orders. Matteo ordered for both of them, which normally would’ve infuriated her—except the man somehow knew her wine preference, paired it with a damn risotto she had bookmarked online two days ago, and it was hard to argue with competence.
When the waiter left, Sofia opened her iPad.
Matteo leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Is that the contract?”
“It’s not a contract,” she said primly. “It’s a set of mutually agreed-upon boundaries. I can have it printed if you prefer hard copy.”
“Do I sign it in blood or ink?” he teased.
“Your choice.”
She turned the screen toward him. He read it silently. Slowly. Her eyes stayed on him the entire time, watching for smirks, scoffs, or signs of mockery. But Matteo didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink. He read it like a real proposal. Then he looked up at her with something she didn’t expect.
Respect.
“Rule one,” he said, tapping the screen. “No kissing on the lips. Cold.”
“I’m not interested in false intimacy,” she said. “I don’t need your mouth to confuse me.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You think kissing is more dangerous than fucking?”
“I think kissing leads to confusion. I don’t do confusion.”
His lips twitched. “Noted.”
“Rule two. No talking unless it’s about physical cues.”
Matteo raised an eyebrow. “Not even a compliment?”
“No.”
“What if I say you’re beautiful?”
“Then I’ll assume you’re concussed.”
He chuckled. “Brutal.”
She shrugged.
“Rule three—only once,” he read, slower now. “What if it’s really good?”
“It won’t matter. It’s still once.”
He smiled like she just told him there was a hidden prize at the end of a maze. “You’re really trying to keep this clean, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mix sex with emotions,” she said.
Matteo tilted his head. “You’re lying to yourself.”
Sofia met his gaze, eyes cool and unflinching. “You don’t know me.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.”
He let that sit, studying her. Not in that sleazy, predatory way men often looked at her—but like she was a complicated formula he wanted to solve. She hated that it didn’t repulse her.
“And the final rule,” he said, tapping the screen again. “No cuddling. That’s fair. I sleep hot.”
She sipped her wine. “I don’t want to feel like I’m being held hostage in bed.”
Matteo laughed at that, sharp and genuine. “God, you’re incredible.”
“Don’t say that.”
He leaned back, watching her like he was trying to catch glimpses of softness through the cracks.
“All right,” he said finally. “I accept the terms. But—”
She raised her brow. “But?”
“I want to make one thing clear.” His voice dropped, slower now, with steel beneath the velvet. “You may have your rules, Sofia Lim. And I respect them. But I promise you—you will break them before I do.”
She smiled, slow and amused. “We’ll see about that.”
And in that dimly lit restaurant, surrounded by candlelight and unspoken dare, the real game began—not of seduction, but of restraint. Not of who wanted more, but who would lose control first.
They toasted.
