Merry Christmas.
No response.
Just silence and the unbearable knowledge that, somewhere across the city, Lorenzo Conti is thinking about me, too.
Then, because I apparently haven’t tortured myself enough tonight, I open social media. The first post that pops up stopsme cold. It’s from one of those glossy Chicago society account. The kind that documents every champagne-fueled smile and glittering lie of the city’s elite. The caption reads:
“Power couple of the evening: Lorenzo Conti and fiancée Francesca Marino, arriving at the St. Regis Charity Gala.”
My heart stutters.
And then I see the photo.
Lorenzo looks devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, his jaw freshly shaved, his expression unreadable but commanding. Francesca clings to his arm like she was made for that role—her red gown draped over every perfect curve, diamonds flashing at her throat.
They look right together. Elegant. Untouchable.
My throat tightens as I swipe to the next image. He’s helping her with her coat, hand grazing her bare shoulder. In the next he’s whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that tilts her head just enough for the cameras to catch her smile.
And then I see it.
The flash of light near her hand catches my eye. I zoom in.
A ring.
Not just any ring. A massive, glittering diamond on her left hand, so bright it practically burns.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
The caption under the next photo confirms what the world already seems to know:“Rumor has it the engagement will be made official tonight during the gala’s closing toast.”
I set the phone down too quickly, like it’s scalding hot. But my pulse won’t slow down. The image plays over and over behind my eyelids. His hand on her waist, her perfect smile, and the ring glinting under the lights.
He’s marrying her. While I’m sitting here in his penthouse, pretending I matter.
A laugh slips out, shaky and sharp. “Of course.”
I grab the phone again, scroll back up, force myself to look at the photo one more time. He’s not smiling, but there’s something soft in his expression. Something that feels too close to tenderness.
And it hurts. God, it hurts in a way I didn’t think possible.
Him on the red carpet.
Her on his arm.
Me, trapped in the world they built, pretending I belong.
A sharp, humorless laugh slips from my lips. “Merry Christmas, Lorenzo,” I whisper to the empty room. Then, quieter, “You win.”
That’s when I grab the card off the floor and make one last purchase. If anything, it will help me take the edge off.
17
Lorenzo
I glance at my phone when no one’s looking, hoping for a message that isn’t there.
Nothing from Elizabeth. Not a fucking word.
