Chapter 48
Chapter
Forty-Eight
“Sometimes the dreams that come true are the dreams you never even knew you had.”
― Alice Sebold
Jade
“Just two steps, and we’re there, amore . Careful, though—there’s a little step.”
My hand clung tightly to his as Angelo guided me through the room.
My view was pitch black, courtesy of the scarf he had tied over my eyes to keep his “little surprise” under wraps. Romantic, right? Except I was already tripping over my own feet, one stiletto threatening rebellion, while he strolled ahead.
Not working for Lazzio Exhibits anymore had given me plenty of free time—too much, honestly. Time to overthink, time to adjust to my shiny new routine as Angelo Lazzio’s girlfriend.
If you’d imagined diamonds, lavish trips, and champagne at breakfast, well… you’d have been right. But it was more than that.
You’d think the CEO of one of the largest, richest groups in the West would be chained to his desk. But no. When it came to me, Angelo’s calendar might as well have been titled 24/7: How to Worship Her . And yeah, I used to joke about him being obsessed with me—until I realized it hadn’t been a joke.
The way his hand would find mine the second I walked into a room, like it was instinct.
The way his body would plaster itself against mine at night—leg slung over me, hand cupping my chest, head buried in my neck like I was the only pillow worth having.
The way his eyes would always, always track me, dark and heavy, as if I’d disappear if he blinked too long. And let’s not forget how his voice, usually sharp enough to cut, would soften to a dangerous murmur whenever he spoke to me.
Warmth bloomed in my chest—along with the faint, smug satisfaction of knowing Angelo Lazzio was mine. Completely, obsessively, irrevocably mine.
And honestly? I loved every second of it.
He made me feel cared for in ways I hadn’t known I needed. He’d sit and listen to me rant about my failed nail appointment, the six-inch heels that had turned my feet into torture devices, or the hour-long saga of blow-drying my hair. And then, instead of rolling his eyes, he’d grab the blow dryer himself. Angelo Lazzio—the man who could crush empires—blow-drying my hair, without a single complaint.
When he had to leave for work, I’d poke and prod at him the whole day just to hear his exasperated laugh. But he never snapped, not anymore. Now, he’d just look at me with that dark amusement in his eyes, lips curving into a wicked smirk, before pulling me in for a kiss that stole my breath—and left me wondering how I had survived his absence at all.
By the end of March, he suggested we move in together.
I’d frozen at first, my fear of the unknown gripping me. But Angelo, ever the persuasive devil, had whispered in my ear all the ways he’d make the experience worthwhile. His tongue on my skin had been surprisingly convincing.
So I caved.
Three weeks in, and I was even more in love—with him, with this, with everything. I loved how his scent filled every corner of the space, how my things now mingled with his, and how he was never more than a room away.
I was hopelessly, recklessly, irredeemably in love with him.
And, as terrifying as it was, it was also the most freeing thing I’d ever felt.
We’d gotten even closer as I started opening up about everything—my past, my family, my dreams, and even the messy parts I usually kept locked away. I told him about my days of chasing highs that always ended in lows, about every mistake I ever made, every regret that kept me up at night.
And Angelo? He had never judged me. Not once.
On the contrary, he’d leaned in, fascinated, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t wait to piece together. Every detail had seemed to make him want to know more, like peeling back another layer of me was his favorite pastime.
He had opened up too, sharing bits of his childhood—Italian summers spent devouring gelato, strolling through the cobblestone streets of Positano and Florence, and baking cakes with his nonna .
His voice would soften when he talked about her, and I couldn’t help but picture a tiny Angelo, cheeks dusted with flour, proudly holding up a cake.
A few days into living together, he told me his mama wanted to keep Georgino, his little fluffball of a dog, with her because she needed the company.
Now, I’d never been a dog person—had never had one, never planned to—but Georgino was different.
The so-called “monster” was actually a saint wrapped in fur. Sweet, quiet, well-behaved… and yet, I’ll admit it: I was jealous .
Yes, jealous. Of a dog .
Because Angelo gave him so much attention .
He’d pet him, talk to him, look at him like he was the center of the universe. Meanwhile, I would stand there like, “Hello? The love of your life is standing right here. Pet me .”
So when his mama asked to take Georgino, I thought it was a genius idea.
Angelo, of course, was annoyed at first, muttering something about “family obligations” and how his mama had plenty of company already. But it didn’t take him long to realize the setup was perfect.
Turns out, his mama started bringing Georgino to work every day, so Angelo could still see his precious angel without the dog hogging all his attention at home.
And me? I had my man all to myself.
Win-win.
I also started seeing Dr. Morano again. Angelo insisted it would help me handle the grief better, and, well, after a heartfelt little reunion, the doc and I had decided on weekly two-hour calls.
I hated to admit it, but he had been right. It was helping. More than I’d like to admit.
He stopped me abruptly, his hands gripping my hips, as his hot breath skimmed the back of my neck.
“You ready?”
I hummed. “ Sì .”
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and then his lips brushed the side of my neck—a kiss, soft at first, then bolder, like he couldn’t help himself.
The scarf loosened, and with one slow pull, he slid it off.
The space was massive—too massive—just an expanse of gleaming marble tiles, white walls that seemed to stretch forever, and ceilings so high they made my neck ache just to look up.
I frowned, confused. “I don’t get it,” I muttered.
His arms circled my waist, pulling me close until his chin rested comfortably on my shoulder. “You said you’ve always loved fashion,” he said, his voice warm against my ear, “so I bought you this place.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. “What?”
I turned around, my hands pressing flat against his blazer.
He kissed my forehead, utterly unfazed by my shock. “You can open your own store, create your own brand. Whatever you want, amore .”
His hands squeezed my hips, grounding me as my brain short-circuited.
“Consider me your first-ever investor,” he added with a grin so smug, I wanted to kiss him and smack him all at once.
I blinked, trying to process. “Angelo… this is a lot more than buying me flowers.”
“I’m not a ‘just flowers’ kind of man,” he said, leaning back to look at me. “You deserve more. Bigger. Better. The world, if I can give it to you.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
I was torn between swooning and screaming.
My own store. My own brand.
God, how did this man know what I wanted and needed even before I did?
“You’re insane,” I finally managed, but it came out soft, barely a whisper.
“For you?” He tilted his head, that devilish smile spreading again. “Always.”
I let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed. “So, you just… bought me a whole building? Probably worth tens of millions of dollars?”
He shrugged, utterly unbothered, as though this grand gesture was as casual as holding the door open for me. “Why not? It’s an investment—for both of us. Besides,” his voice dropped, a dangerous edge slipping in, “I like spoiling you. Watching you get flustered is my new favorite hobby.”
My cheeks burned. “You’re impossible.”
I turned back toward the space, my gaze sweeping over the vast, marble-floored expanse, the high ceilings that seemed to stretch into infinity, and the stark white walls practically begging for color and creativity.
“You’re serious about this?” I asked, my voice quieter now, the weight of his offer finally sinking in.
He came up behind me, his presence grounding, yet electrifying. His hands slid up my arms, his touch both soothing and possessive. “I’ve never been more serious. This is yours, amore . Do whatever you want with it. Make it your empire.”
My empire.
The words settled in my chest, foreign but thrilling.
“What if I fail?” The question escaped before I could stop it, a flicker of doubt slipping through my defenses.
Angelo’s grip on me tightened, his lips brushing against my ear. “You won’t.”
I turned my head, catching his gaze.
It was unwavering, as steady as his heartbeat against my back.
“How can you be so sure?” I whispered.
“Because I know you, Jade. And because I won’t let you.”
I didn’t bother with words—I couldn’t. My chest was tight, emotions too big, too overwhelming to cram into a neat little “thank you.”
So, I did the only thing that made sense at the moment.
I grabbed his face, my hands tangling in his hair, and kissed him.
Hard. Deep. And forever.