My last year at boarding school, I spent more time thinking about Luca than I did studying. I wondered if he'd still be single when I came home. I wondered if he ever thought about me. I came home a year ago with my head full of fantasies that I knew were dangerous but couldn't quite let go of.
And then I saw him again, and everything fell apart.
The morning after the dinner party, I wake up desperate to talk to him. The Luca I saw last night—the one who barely looked at me, who left in the middle of dinner like he couldn't stand to be in the same room—isn't the Luca I remember. Something has changed, and I need to understand what. Maybe if I can just talk to him, if I can remind him of who we used to be to each other, before all of this… something will be different. Not what I want, of course, but it won’t feel so strange any longer.
I find him in one of the sunrooms, standing by a window with his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a dark suit, and when he turns at the sound of the door opening, his expression is carefully blank. Professional and distant. Like I'm a stranger.
"I need your opinion on something," I say, trying to keep my voice light… casual. Like my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.
His expression doesn’t change. "What is it?"
I hold up the garment bag I'm carrying. "There’s another dinner tonight. My father wants me to make a good impression, and I can't decide between two dresses."
It's a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. But I'm desperate, and desperation makes you do stupid things.
"I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine," Luca says, his voice flat.
"I'd still like your opinion." I move closer, unzipping the garment bag to reveal a deep burgundy dress. "This one is more conservative. Elegant. The kind of thing Marco would probably appreciate."
Luca's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Then wear that one."
"Or..." I pull out the second dress, a midnight blue option with a lower neckline. "This one. It's a bit more daring, but I think it's more me."
I'm watching his face carefully, looking for any sign of the man I remember. The one who used to tease me, who'd give me his honest opinion even when I didn't want to hear it. But this Luca just looks at the dresses with a detached expression, like he can’t fathom why I’m asking him something like this.
"Wear whichever one you prefer," he says finally. "It doesn't matter."
The words sting more than they should.It doesn't matter.Idon't matter. He couldn't care less what I wear or who I wear it for.
Even if it’s another man.
"Right," I say, my voice smaller than I intended. "Of course."
I start to leave, but something makes me turn back. Some stubborn part of me that refuses to accept this distance between us. "Luca," I say softly. "Did I do something wrong?"
His eyes finally meet mine, and for just a second, I see something flicker in their depths that looks almost like pain. But then it's gone, replaced by that careful blankness.
"No," he says. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
The question hangs in the air between us, too honest, too vulnerable. I should take it back. I should laugh it off and leave before I embarrass myself further.
But I can't. I need to know.
"I'm looking at you right now." Luca’s voice is so controlled it makes my chest ache.
"No, you're not. You're lookingatme, but you haven't really looked at me since I came home."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the facade. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"Giulia—"
"Forget it," I cut him off, suddenly unable to bear whatever excuse he's about to give me. "I shouldn't have asked."
I leave before he can respond, before the tears burning behind my eyes can fall. Before I can humiliate myself any further.
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