Page 117 of Out of Control

“It’s yours. You deserve everything that happens tonight.”

“Ollie.” My heart breaks as I take a step forward and he takes a step back.

“Sofia,” my grandfather warns like I’m a child.

But it works. I hesitate. I falter. And I’m not proud of it.

“Go. Your customers are waiting for you,” Rossi says, his smile as bittersweet as the hurt in his eyes. “Hasn’t this been the story all along?” He smiles, but it’s his reserved, sad smile.

For one star to shine to its full potential, it needs to shine alone. For the other stars around it to dim. Midnight Madness.

I choke on my protest as he walks out the door and shuts it behind him. I turn to face my grandfather, the man I adore but now don’t particularly like.

“El patriarca. I can explain. Oliver is—”

“Enough. I don’t want you to speak of him again. Understood?” he asks and the veiled threat is clear.

I stare at him with my heart in my throat and a bitterness on my tongue I’ve never tasted before.

“Come, let’s go now.”

• • •

It’s fine. We’re fine. I shouldn’t have been there. Don’t let this ruin your night. You deserve every ounce of praise you receive tonight.

I reread Rossi’s text over and over, trying to fight back the tears that threaten and the urge to look back over my shoulder behind us to see if he’s following in his own car.

He’s not.

I know he’s not.

Hasn’t this been the story all along? Rossi’s comment repeats over and over.

“It’s a good night, Sofia. All I wanted was to celebrate you. None of this other business matters.” My grandfather pats my hand and smiles softly. “The art show always did bring out so many tourists,” he says absently of the abundance of people milling about the street.

“Hmm,” I say, mind occupied with Rossi and how I failed him in so many ways tonight.

“Look at all of them here,” he murmurs when we turn the corner to the street the gallery is on. “All waiting for you.”

I look to where he’s pointing and am staggered by the amount of people lining the streets, waiting for us to open.

Holy shit.

It hits me then. The magnanimity of what I’ve accomplished. Of what we’ve accomplished. I glance back behind the car again. The opportunity in front of me and the person missing who I’m so used to having behind me.

And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone.

He should be here. With me.

“We’re here, Mr. Navarro.”

“Thank you,” my grandfather says to the driver as he pulls in behind the gallery.

A million things run through my head. Mostly what I should say to my grandfather about what an incredible man Rossi is. How tonight wouldn’t be possible without him. How he’s wrong about him.

A part of me knows there’s no changing the mind of a man who’s lived almost a century and is set in his ways.

The other part of me fears letting him down even more.