Jamie lowers his sunglasses, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. “Darling, there’s nomightabout it. I say we concede defeat now and drown our sorrows at La Velia’s.”
Their laughter ripples through me, momentarily easing the crushing weight pressing against my ribs. But it doesn’t last.
Because when I glance down at my phone, the entire world shifts.
My breath stutters and lodges in my throat as the Google alert I set comes back to bite me in the shape of headlines and photos.
Gianna Salvatore. Soon-to-be O’Malley.
A grainy paparazzi photo stares back at me—Gianna standing beside a shiny SUV, her smile blinding as Matt approaches her. And the worst part—the part that slices deepest—is how good he looks, even reduced to blur and pixels.
Immaculate in a tailored suit, probably Armani or custom Brunello Cucinelli, hair tousled like he’s been dragging his fingers through it in restless thought.
Or so I think, until a second, zoomed-in shot lands like an arrow to my already shredded heart and I see it.
The black onyx ring on his hand, the one I gave him, the one he never took off is still there, like nothing has changed.
And soon there will be another band beside it. Cold. Permanent. A reminder that on paper, he’ll belong to someone else, even if he’s always belonged to me.
Something caves in behind my ribs.
We were always doomed. I can see that now.
Even if my mother hadn’t scorched the earth between us—even if we weren’t stepsiblings by law—Matt was never truly mine. The contract tying him to Gianna existed long before I knew his name, arranged before either of us had a say.
We were never going to make it.
And this—the photo, the headline—is the nail sealing shut the fantasy I keep trying to bury.
Matthew O’Malley landed in Italy on Wednesday; engagement to Gianna Salvatore confirmed.
Three days. Three whole days ago. The same night I dressed up as a schoolgirl and heard my name slip from his lips for the first time in a year.
I was calling him Daddy while he was under the same roof as his soon-to-be wife. My chest tightens just thinking about it—shame, lust, and disbelief all tangled into one burning tendril of heartbreak.
Good thing I’m no longer expected to show my face at the wedding. God knows how that would end.
“Lily, what do you say?”
Isabella’s voice cuts through the fog, distant and echoing, as though she’s calling to me from underwater. I blink hard, struggling to remember where I am.
“To what?” I croak, my voice slower and rougher than I intend.
“A night at La Velia’s,” Jamie supplies, rising from his chair and extending a hand toward us both, all dramatic flourish like a ringmaster opening the velvet curtain. His grin is pure wicked invitation. “We deserve it.”
In the back of my head, I know I had plans to stream tonight. Lingerie picked out. Camera charged. A version of myself I was supposed to become on cue. But the thought of bleeding on camera and pretending I’m fine when I’m anything but sounds like a hell I can’t bring myself to face.
Drowning in neon lights and overpriced cocktails sounds precisely like what I need if I’m going to keep my pieces together for one more night. So I take his hand, forcing a smile that barely fits across my face, even as something inside my chest quietly caves in.
“Let’s get shit-faced.”
La Velia swallows us whole the moment we step inside, the world transforming into a riot of pulsing bass and kaleidoscopic lights. Sound throbs up through the soles of my Mary Janes, rattling my bones. Red and violet strobes fracture across the crowd like bruises blooming mid-air. The air tastes of sweat, perfume, and the sweet tang of desperation masquerading as confidence.
Perfect.
I down my first drink so quickly the cold burns my throat, a small rebellion against the pressure mounting behind my ribs. Jamie orders another round before I can even set my glass down,because of course he does. He knows me too well, knows that behind every bright grin is something brittle and fraying.
Isabella’s already a streak of silver on the dance floor, her dress like a beacon for trouble. She looks untouched by anything as trivial as heartbreak or headlines. For a fleeting second, I envy her. I want to be that girl—the one who doesn’t give a damn.
