A kiss that stole the air from my lungs and erased the entire world.
His hands drew me against him until our bodies fit perfectly—his hot skin pressed to mine, setting off a rush of sensations so familiar and overwhelming it made me dizzy.
Every movement of his mouth felt like a burning caress. His tongue slid into my mouth, meeting mine, drawing soft, helpless sounds out of me before I could stop them.
My hands traveled over his shoulders, down his sculpted chest to his strong hips, feeling him tense beneath me—making it worse in the best way.
He wrapped me in a tight embrace, his hands sliding possessively along my back, holding me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.
And in some way, I knew that was exactly how he saw me.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes hazy with heat. Enrico stroked my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip.
“I love you, Valentina,” he whispered—low and intense enough to make my heart stutter.
It always stuttered when he said it.
And he said it often.
I still wasn’t used to happiness like this. I’d always thought it belonged to characters in movies. Not to women like me.
“I love you too, Enrico,” I whispered back. “More than you can imagine.”
He smiled—small, secret, mine—and pulled me into his arms again, holding me tight against his chest.
I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and let myself feel safe. Loved. Whole.
No matter what happened in the future, this happiness—this moment—would live inside me forever.
Even if the world around us changed completely, I knew one thing with the deepest certainty:
As long as we were together…
everything would be okay.
TWENTY-THREE
ENRICO FERRARA
The meeting had been dragging on for nearly an hour, and my patience—already worn thin by the tension of the past few days—was approaching its limit.
Seated behind the desk of the temporary office, I listened as my communications team debated strategies to contain the growing public backlash against Dreamland.
“We need to reverse the negative narrative quickly, Mr. Ferrara,” Bruna, my head of PR, was saying, her expression tight. “Perhaps a more human-centered campaign—highlighting the real benefits to the community—”
The door burst open before she could finish.
André walked in with fast, heavy steps, gripping a tablet like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His face was serious—too serious.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
My eyes narrowed.
“André?” I asked, my voice low and controlled, tension already crawling up my spine. “What happened?”
He shot a meaningful glance at my team.
“We need to talk. Now.”
