I was a married woman.
Everything came rushing back.
The wedding. The eyes on me.
Vincenzo.
His gaze—cold. Unreadable.
The kiss.
The taste of peach spreading across my tongue.
Then the tightening in my throat.
The burning. The suffocation.
My body giving out.
Then—blackness.
A sharp, ragged inhale tore from my chest.
I spun toward the dark corner of the terrace, where I’d thought I’d glimpsed a shadow moments ago—and there he was.
A figure, unmistakably familiar.
Vincenzo Orsini.
Sitting in the shadows beneath a pergola draped in white jasmine vines, as though he had been waiting for me the entire time.
He lounged in a low wooden chair carved from dark, rich wood, the kind that looked handcrafted.
One leg crossed over the other with effortless elegance.
A newspaper rested in his hands, the pages slightly creased from use.
He looked... calm.
Black-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, catching the light.
His dark hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place.
In the early sunlight, his features were sharply defined—high cheekbones, a strong jawline shadowed with just enough stubble, lips pressed into a firm, unreadable line.
My chest tightened.
“Vincenzo...” My voice came out weak.
But he didn’t respond.
Didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge me.
Only after a long, suffocating pause did he slowly lower the newspaper, folding it with deliberate precision.
The sound of the paper rustling seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet air.
He set it aside on the glass table.
