He accepts it, reaching for his glass. “Then tonight is for forgetting.”
“To forgetting,” I murmur, and lift my glass to toast the lie.
He leans in as the evening stretches, his questions soft but persistent—where I’m from, why I moved, and whether I miss home. I answer with just enough to be interesting but not enough to matter. He wants to get to know me; I want to use him to forget.
By the time we’ve small-talked our way through dinner and dessert—with him stubbornly insisting on paying—I let him walk me home. Fighting it feels pointless. There’s an illusion of normalcy between us, fragile as tissue paper, but I cling to it anyway.
At my building, he hesitates, eyes searching mine. “Will I see you again?”
I want to say yes. I want to be the woman who moves on easily, but that’s never been me.
“Maybe,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like a mask. He leans in, slow enough for me to stop him. I don’t because I can’t stop wondering; if I kiss someone new, will that erase Matt’s touch from my memory? Will I finally be able to move on?
But kissing Louis just feels wrong. Like trying on a dress that doesn’t fit, no matter how perfect it looked on the hanger. Wrong, hollow, just another reminder of what I lost.
When I step inside my flat, I lock the door and press my back to it. The city beyond is quiet, but inside my head it screams. Matt’s face. His voice. The gilded ceiling in Turin, the suit that matched Gianna Salvatore’s perfect smile. Even without being there, I can picture it all so clearly it hurts. In another life, it should be me wearing his ring and sharing private looks with him as strangers and loved ones congratulate us.
I sink to the floor, knees pulled to my chest, letting the silence swallow me whole. The wine, the candles, Louis’ charm, they mean nothing here. The rage, the heartbreak, the ache are all that remain. And for a bitter moment, I let it consume me.
And then a reckless, bright thought strikes—Why not go out again? Why shouldn’t I let someone who isn’t him look at me the way I used to think I deserved to be looked at? Why not let another set of hands remind me I’m still alive?
I grab my phone again, thumb hovering over Louis’ name. My chest hammers, a mix of fear, defiance, and hunger. I know it’s reckless. I know it won’t fix anything. But tonight, I don’t care. I need the distraction, the sensation, the proof that I can still burn bright even if he tried to dim me.
I type a single line, reckless and impatient:Dinner again?
No hesitation. No overthinking. Just the sharp, intoxicating thrill of doing something forbidden by my own heartbreak. My finger hovers over the send button, one last flicker of reason, but reason has no place tonight.
I hit send.
Immediately, my mind spins ahead. What will it feel like? Will it matter if he touches me? If his eyes linger too long? I’m not looking for love. I’m not looking for someone to stay. I just want to feel. I want to fill the emptiness with someone else’s hands, someone else’s attention. It’s impulsive and self-destructive, but something about the danger feels perfect and fitting.
Because Matt is out there, somewhere, with his fiancé, and I’m here, on fire, letting myself be consumed. And if I have to burn to remember I’m alive, then so be it.
Chapter 23
“Your move, O’Malley.”
Her whispered words echo in my head as I read the email from the administration board. Dawn is only just starting to spill over the hills, and Adele André will be waking up to find she’s out of a job. Not dead—though I did toy with that idea—but removed from Lily’s life all the same. Suspended, pending a formal investigation into “unprofessional conduct and inappropriate comments.”
Amazing how quickly a career can vanish when the right strings get pulled.
I shut my phone and lean into the balcony’s cold stone rail. My bandaged knuckles still itch, but I don’t pay it any mind. Below me, Italy wakes in gold hues.
Objectively, it’s beautiful. The olive trees, the terracotta rooftops, the morning sun spilling like liquid gold across the hills. But none of it matters. I’m a racehorse with blinders on, every ounce of my focus locked on her and the footage that kept me up half the night.
Hunched over her sketchbook, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hair falling in a loose curtain around her face. Every line a deliberate, fierce stroke across the page, like she was trying to stake a claim on a world that keeps trying to tell her no. The way she moves, leaning into the page, oblivious to everything else, makes my chest tighten. My hands clench against the railing without realising it, knuckles burning under the bandages, as I recall the look on her face as she called Cora and Abbie.
No one gets to tell her she can’t. Not some bitter academic prattling about “practicality.” Not someone who doesn't even know her. And certainly not me.
The door to my room creaks open behind me—measured footsteps, the scent of expensive cologne. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Salvatore creeping up on me.
“Matthew.” Antonio’s voice slips into the quiet like silk. “Long night?”
I keep my gaze on the horizon. He already knows damn well I’ve spent the last week since I landed here attending more than my fair share of bullshit meetings in the name of getting to know my new ‘family’ while also still answering to myactualfamily. If this is any kind of indicator of what the next six months will look like, just shoot me now and save us all the hassle.
He comes to stand beside me, immaculate as always. Even at this hour, his suit looks freshly pressed, his cufflinks catching the sunrise—tiny gold skulls atop a cross that look like they’re smiling.
“I thought,” he says lightly, though there’s nothing light in his eyes, “you could use a distraction.”
