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PROLOGUE
Alma
I’ve always wondered how I’d react in such a situation: he and I, face to face, after so many years. Of course, it wasn’t very likely to happen, with him living in the United States and me living in France. Still, I’ve imagined that chance encounter a billion times.
I’ve even played the scene out in my head before—not to prepare myself, just to see how it would make me feel. And to rule out the worst-case scenarios by erasing them from my mind once and for all: tripping as I walk past him, spilling my coffee on his immaculate shirt, stammering out a pitiful apology, dropping my files, and knocking my head against his as we both bend down to pick them up. Just imagining the way we would smile at each other was enough to send my heart into overdrive.
The truth is, real life is nothing like a rom-com. Lost loves stay lost. They don’t come back to life. But they don’t fade away either.
Vadim Arcadi was my first love. The kind you never forget. The kind that leaves a permanent mark on you. The kind that never truly ends, even when it falls apart in the worst possible way, because you always go on loving a little when you have loved so deeply. Your first love is carved into your skin, your heart, and every hidden corner of your memory, even when the whole world keeps repeating to you, “Move on. Let go.”
But move on to what, if it means moving on without him?
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Alma
He’s here. He’s actually here.
His clear eyes sweep across the room. They land on me and widen for the briefest instant. Then nothing. They're already somewhere else. With this fleeting glance, everything comes rushing back to me. My breathing falters, my pulse races wildly, my limbs grow numb. I’m suffocating in this ice-cold meeting room, the relentless air conditioning chilling my bones. I tug at the hem of my blazer dress, needing something to hold on to.
We don’t smile at each other.
The only sound is the erratic pounding of my heart.
Notes of orange blossom, fig, and tonka bean drift through the room. I would recognize this fragrance among thousands: Ciao Amore. The cologne he wore back then; the first gift I ever gave him. I can’t believe he still wears it.
That simple thought makes my head spin.
I’m eighteen years old again. Being sucked back into my memories, as if time had never passed, as if nothing had changed. He seems different. I gather myself so I can look at him properly. I study him closely, taking in every detail. The thick, wavy brown hair I once loved to run my fingers through is now short, stylishly cut, and tousled in a deliberate way. The nonchalant student who never cared about his appearance has given way to a businessman intent on controlling his image. His clear, gray eyes, so pure, seem to have become several shades lighter over the years. His defined jawline is now covered with three-day stubble, replacing the smooth, clean-shaven skin I remember.
The feel of his baby-soft skin comes back to me. My fingers remember it so well that a shiver runs down my spine.
His features are more defined, and his body seems to have filled out. The Vadim of my past never parted with his worn leather biker jacket; the Vadim of today is impeccably dressed in a brand-new designer suit. He is devastatingly good-looking. Even more so than before, if that’s possible. Women must find him irresistible. There’s no doubt about it. And I’m sure he uses it to his advantage.
It’s crazy. I haven’t said a word to him, and our eyes met for barely two seconds, but I already feel a flicker of jealousy stirring inside me. I’ve never been the possessive type; it’s not in my nature. Except when it comes to him.
But that’s all in the past.
At least, it should be.
I’m not the only one to have noticed his arrival. Whispers ripple through the room. Alone in my corner, I still can’t tear my eyes away from his imposing figure. Eventually, a deep, cheerful voice bursts the bubble I’ve retreated into. Joseph Wilson, our French-American boss, invites us to take our seats around the large glass table. Like a perfect gentleman, Clarence Miller, the distribution manager, pulls out my chair and flashes me a polished, professional smile. Stiff and tense, I sit down without a word.
“Colleagues and collaborators, it is my great honor to introduce the founder and CEO of King Productions: Mr. Vadim King. He will be joining us over the coming months to spearhead the launch of our French subsidiary here, in Paris. Please join me in giving him the warm welcome he deserves.”
King?
My Vadim was Arcadi.
That was his name back then. The one everyone knew in college. The one I’ve never been able to forget.
Wilson’s introduction has caused quite a stir. My coworkers stare at the newcomer, smile, straighten a little in their seats. The men adjust their ties in a pointless, almost primal reflex, and then the room fills with applause. I join in, so as not to stand out. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the unexpected man in his thirties. Having started with nothing, he is now at the helm of an empire in the film industry.
How did he get here? I don’t know, but I should have seen it coming.
Vadim wasn’t just blessed with stunning good looks; the fairies who watched over his cradle also made him brilliant and determined, then flicked their magic wand one final time and gifted him charisma.
But why did he change his name?
