The apology was what she had needed to hear. But it wasn't enough.
“I love you, Luca,” she said, the words feeling both true and terribly sad.“And I love my job. But I can’t keep living in the crossfire. Every idea I have is now filtered through the lens of‘is this really good, or does he just think it’s good because he’s in love with me?’Every victory feels tainted. The leak didn’t just break our secret; it broke my confidence.”
He reached across the table, his hand covering hers.“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I need space,” she whispered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek.“Not from you. But from this… from Chroma. I can’t find my voice here anymore. It’s always going to be overshadowed by yours.”
The truth of it hung in the air between them, stark and devastating. He had built Chroma into his kingdom, and in bringing her into it, he had inadvertently made it impossible for her to rule her own domain.
Luca’s hand tightened on hers. He looked like she’d struck him.“So that’s it? You’re leaving?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, her heart breaking at the devastation on his face.“I just know I can’t stay. Not like this.”
The“we need to talk” was over. They had talked. And the future they had been building together now lay in fragments on the table between them, sharp and irreparable.
Chapter 12:
The Paris Trip
The Paris collections were the crown jewel of the fashion calendar, and Chroma’s coverage was sacrosanct. The trip had been on the calendar for months, a glittering, five-day whirlwind of shows, parties, and industry schmoozing. It was supposed to be their first trip together as a couple, a romantic backdrop to their professional partnership.
Now, it was a minefield.
They boarded the Eurostar in a silence that was both tense and exhausted. Isla stared out the window as the London suburbs blurred into the Kentish countryside, then gave way to the flat, green fields of France. Luca was buried in his tablet, reviewing show schedules, but she could see the tension in the set of his jaw.
Their hotel room was a beautiful, airy suite at Le Meurice, overlooking the Tuileries Garden. It felt obscenely luxurious for the chasm that separated them. They moved around the space like ghosts, unpacking in silence.
The first show was at the Grand Palais. Backstage was its usual hive of activity, but Isla felt detached, an observer behind a pane of glass. She took notes, interviewed designers, but her heart wasn’t in it. She watched Luca work the room, his charm and authority effortlessly turning back on, and felt a pang of loss for the man who had looked at her with awe.
That night, there was a party at a private mansion in the Marais. The air was thick with perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. Isla stood near a towering floral arrangement, feeling utterly alone in the crowd. Luca was across the room, deep in conversation with a legendary Italian designer.
She saw a well-known editor from a rival magazine approach him, leaning in close, her hand resting on his arm in a familiarly possessive way. Luca laughed at something she said, and the sight was a physical blow. It was a glimpse of his life before her, a life that would continue, seamless and glamorous, without her.
She couldn’t breathe. She set her glass down on a passing tray and fled, weaving through the glittering throng until she burst out onto the quiet, cobbled street. The cool night air was a shock. She leaned against the ancient stone wall of the building, trying to steady her racing heart.
A moment later, the heavy door opened and Luca emerged. His face was etched with concern.“Isla? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“I just… I needed air,” she stammered.
He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the pain she was trying to hide. The professional mask he’d worn all day finally slipped.“This is killing me,” he said, his voice raw.“Being here with you, like this. It’s worse than not being with you at all.”
“I saw you with Alessandra Conti,” she whispered.“You looked… you looked like you used to. Before me.”
He stepped closer, his hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at him.“Isla, look at me. That was nothing. That is my job. It is a hollow performance. You… you are the only real thing in my life. And I am watching you slip through my fingers becauseI was too much of a coward to defend you with my heart, and not just my head.”
There, on a dark Parisian street, with the sound of a distant party leaking through the walls, the carefully constructed dam between them broke. The distance, the hurt, the professional resentment—it all crumbled in the face of his desperate, heartfelt confession.
He didn’t kiss her. He just held her face in his hands, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the cold air. It was a surrender. A plea.
The Paris trip was no longer a minefield. It had become their last, best chance at a ceasefire.
Chapter 13:
The City of Light and Hard Truths
He didn’t try to coax her back inside. Instead, he took her hand, his grip firm and sure, and led her away from the mansion, away from the noise. They walked in silence through the winding streets of the Marais, the ancient buildings leaning in as if keeping their secrets. The tension from the train and the hotel room began to dissolve with every step, replaced by a fragile, tentative calm.
They found a small, tucked-away square, its centre a dormant fountain. A single, old-fashioned streetlamp cast a soft, golden glow. They sat on the cold stone rim of the fountain, the only sound the distant hum of the city.
