Four #2
“Trust me, there was nothing remotely date-like about it. Dante is completely smitten with Felicity Ford. You should’ve seen him when he talked about her.
He lit up like Times Square. And honestly?
He’s brilliant. The way he sees design, the way he talks about structure and line and balance…
It’s next-level. No wonder that dress turned out the way it did. He’s a genius.”
Sophie grins. “Okay, fine. But what about Matteo? Did you say yes to him?”
I shake my head and reach for my drink. “There was no ‘yes’ to give. He was totally distracted. Barely present. Whatever I thought was there? Gone.”
I take a long sip, hoping the chill will cool the flush still clinging to my skin.
In truth, I’m relieved. Matteo might be stunning to look at, but since all the phone calls at lunch, I don’t want to get involved with someone who wants someone who’s needy.
That is not me. Even thinking about dating makes my chest lock up.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie says gently.
I force a smile. “Don’t be. I’m not.”
She gives me a look. “You sure about that?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, setting the glass down. “He’s probably fantastic in bed. But he doesn’t exactly scream monogamy. More like the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. And let’s be real. What guy wants to deal with my brand of baggage?”
“What is your brand of baggage?” Sophie looks at me wide-eyed.
“Okay, emotional baggage? Let’s unpack. I run a business that eats up every second of my life and then asks for more.
I spend more time with CAD renderings and diamond distributors than I do with actual human beings.
My father is dating a woman my age—literally.
Like, we went to the same summer camp when we were thirteen.
That’s… its own special brand of trauma.
I may or may not have been the target of a kidnapping, which is a sentence I never thought I’d say out loud.
And the last guy I dated? He broke up with me on live TV.
During a press conference. While announcing he was running for City Supervisor.
‘I’m choosing public service over personal distractions.
’ That’s what he called me. A distraction. ”
Sophie exhales. “So yeah. You have a few…things. Who doesn’t? You’re still standing, building a future, and for better or worse, you still believe in love. Just not with politicians or emotionally stunted fathers.”
I reach for Sophie’s hand and give it a squeeze. This is the only personal touch I get these days.
“You like him,” she sing-songs, all smug and sparkly-eyed.
“If you start singing ‘Ellory and Matteo Sitting in a Tree’, I’m walking out.”
She laughs as I duck behind the menu.
We order, and after that, the conversation drifts to work, mutual friends, and our favorite pastime of people-watching.
We invent elaborate backstories for half the room, turning strangers into soap opera characters.
We laugh too loudly, and for the first time in a long while, I feel something close to normal.
Sophie’s been my anchor since the FBI showed up at my door eight months ago telling me that they caught my stalker.
After learning all about what he was doing and that he’d been in my house, I was terrified.
She dragged me out of the house when I couldn’t face daylight, let alone people.
She never pushed. Never judged. Between her and my bodyguards—Richard and Duane—I learned how to leave the house again. How to breathe.
Mostly.
Back then, I didn’t trust anyone. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, too afraid to close my eyes.
The camera lenses had been everywhere, tracking me, judging me.
Even now, I still scan rooftops and shadowed corners like I’m being watched.
The stalker had photos taken of me around town and two doctored nudes.
Fake or not, the threat of exposure was enough to unravel me.
To this day, I flinch when my phone rings with an unknown number.
I still check every room, every shadow. The fear never really left. It just got quieter.
I’m better now. Not fixed. Not fearless. But better.
After dinner, Sophie pulls on her coat. She’s off to meet Joshua Stone, her boyfriend. They’ve been together for years and say they’re getting married, but he hasn’t officially proposed.
“Be safe,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Some men surprise you,” she says. “Give him a chance to.”
I rise and hug her tight. “Maybe stop worrying about my love life and take a chance on yours. Remind me. When are you getting married?”
She snorts. “One day we’ll figure it out.”
“Make sure he knows I have your engagement ring all picked out,” I say softly.
Outside, Richard is already waiting with the car. I slide into the back seat and rest my head against the glass, watching the city blur by in streaks of gold and shadow.
Another night.
Another quiet layer of armor I didn’t realize I’d put back on.
The Saturday morning sun is glorious, spilling golden light through my windows like it’s been saving it just for me. I love when we have a sunny summer day.
I haven’t left my apartment since Tuesday night’s dinner with Sophie.
I’ve been holed up, working on next year’s budgets from home, alternating between dense spreadsheets and chapters of a seriously good novel.
I even started a second one. My fridge, however, looks like a crime scene littered with takeout containers and poor life choices.
Duane lounges by the door with the calm patience of someone trained to wait. And wait.
I glance up. “Hey, would you mind coming with me to the farmer’s market?”
He straightens. “Happy to go wherever you need, or stay here. You’re the boss.”
“I just need air. And food that doesn’t come with a bamboo fork.”
We arrange for Richard to drop us off at one end of the market and meet us at the other.
It’s already packed—shoulder-to-shoulder traffic—but I feel safer in the crowd than I ever do walking alone.
The air smells like basil, strawberries, and cinnamon.
Bees hover near stacks of honey jars, and sunlight flickers through wind-tossed awnings like confetti.
First stop is my favorite bread vendor. I grab a bag of still-warm caramel pecan rolls and breathe in the buttery sweetness.
“I thought this trip was about healthy food?” Duane teases, eyeing the oversized bag.
I raise a brow. “Are you my food police now?”
He grins, hands up in surrender. “Not even a little.”
I laugh. The sound surprises me. It feels good in my chest, like something I didn’t realize I missed.
At the cheese stand, I pick up a creamy herbed goat cheese and a blue so pungent it might need its own seat on the ride home.
The nut vendor draws me in with the smell of candied pecans, and I toss in some dried cranberries and apricots from the next stall.
I get red leaf lettuce from one farmer, butter lettuce from another.
By the time we make it halfway through, my arms are full, and I’m starting to feel like a person again.
“Ellory?”
I glance up and spot Caroline Sullivan and Emerson Healy threading their way through the crowd.
Two of my favorite women in San Francisco—smart, powerful, and unbothered by pretty much everything.
Both worked with us when their partners bought engagement rings, and somehow, that turned into a working friendship I truly enjoy.
“Hey, you two! Stocking up too?”
“Hiding from our husbands,” Emerson jokes.
We all laugh.
“Not quite,” I say. “But my fridge looked like a fast-food graveyard. It was time for a reset.”
“I haven’t seen you since Fashion Week,” Caroline says. “Rumor has it you bought Night to Remember .”
I smile, cheeks warming. “I did. Technically for the store. All the buzz around rough diamonds got me thinking. Why not push Olivier into something bold? I met with Dante and Matteo Marino yesterday. I’m…cautiously optimistic.”
“We’re actually investors in their new venture,” Emerson says. She’s head of ops at a major VC firm, so that carries weight.
“That’s good to know. My dad’s never been impressed with their father. He’s wary of getting involved with the Marinos. But if you two are backing them, that’ll help ease his mind.”
“They’re good guys,” Caroline adds. “Though, yeah…their personal lives? Pretty much Page Six.”
I laugh, grateful I’m not the only one who noticed. “A new woman every night? Just hearing about it exhausts me.”
We chat a little longer—updates, small talk, more laughter—then say our goodbyes and drift apart with promises to get lunch soon.
At the last stall, a bunch of pale pink gerbera daisies catches my eye, and I can’t resist. My arms are already full, but I buy them anyway. While the vendor wraps the bouquet, I glance across the way at a stand selling chocolate-covered bacon.
Sweet. Salty. Crunchy.
Honestly…genius.
Then I hear a voice behind me. Familiar. Unmistakable. “I thought you said salads were for rabbits.”
Something shifts in the air. Goosebumps race up my spine, I turn…and there he is.
Matteo.
Casual in jeans and a fitted T-shirt, impossibly handsome, somehow even more so than I remember. But what stops me cold isn’t him.
It’s the stroller he’s pushing.
I blink. “Who’s this?”
He offers a sheepish smile. “First time taking her out. We’re just dating.”
I snort. “I heard you liked them young.”
He throws his head back, laughing. “Always at least twenty-one. But no. Remember during lunch, when I kept checking my phone? My doorman was calling. I thought my building had a leak. Turns out…an ex left Amelia with the doorman. She’s my daughter. Please meet Amelia.”
I just stare at him. “Wait. What? Celeste is your doorman?”
“No,” he says, chuckling. “Celeste is the name of my building. It’s one of the high rises across from the Fairmont on Nob Hill. My doorman was calling because this ball of energy was waiting for me. We believe the mom was dealing with postpartum issues. She just… left.”
I glance down at the baby. She’s a bundle of soft cotton and plump cheeks, sunhat sliding sideways, her lashes impossibly long for someone so tiny.
When her fingers wrap around mine, it feels like the world stops turning.
She looks up at me and grins, revealing two deep dimples, then reaches for my hand and coos.
My heart actually stumbles.
“I hope her mom gets the help she needs,” I say softly, brushing my fingers along Amelia’s. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“She likes you,” Matteo says, sounding almost surprised.
“She has excellent taste.”
I look back up at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the barely-there scruff, the effort he’s clearly made to keep it together. There’s a flicker of vulnerability behind his smile, and I finally see it.
The truth.
“This is why you didn’t call,” I say.
He blushes.
“Yeah. Our meeting with Dante was my first day back at work. Since then, it’s been a whirlwind, trying to turn my condo into something even remotely baby-friendly. I hired a live-in nanny, but her schedule’s like decoding military intel. I’m making it up as I go.”
I shake my head, still trying to process. “You’ve had quite the two weeks.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
And just like that, everything clicks into place.