Chapter 14
IN PUBLIC
EVAN
Ihave a fiancée.
I’m engaged.
I don’t like it one bit.
After lunch that day, when Nonno told her parents and mine, and had his PA send a company-wide announcement, I was forced to propose to her at a party where pictures were taken.
She picked out her own ring. A flashy Bulgari. Large. It’s designed to be seen from across a room...or outer space. It aggressively catches the light, demands attention, and photographs beautifully.
It’s expensive. I know. I paid for it even before I saw it.
Nonno had suggested Nonna’s ring, but thankfully, Arabella turned it down. I don’t think I could, in good conscience, give that to her.
Nonno gave it to Nonna when he was struggling financially. He’s always been grateful and proud of how Nonna stood by him when the vineyards barely broke even, when frost took half a harvest, when the olive groves yielded more worry than profit.
It’s antique and unpretentious. A single old-cut diamond set low in a thin band, softened by decades of wear.
It’s meant to be worn every day while hands work and lives are built.
It’s not Arabella’s style.
You know whose style that ring would be?
I tamp down the voice in my head that’s been showing me how unfair I’ve been to Navya. How I took a beautiful woman and crushed her with my ground rules and demands for secrecy.
Then, it made sense. Now, when I look back, I’m horrified at myself. And aware that if Navya gave herself to me, her first lover, and put up with my bullshit, it must be because she fell in love with me.
I feel guilt. I feel so much more than that.
I see Navya every day at work.
I miss her every day.
She keeps her distance. No pouting. All professional.
I watch her hungrily when no one is looking.
I’m paying attention to my cufflink as I walk past the nurse’s station to get to my appointment with Arabella, when I bump into…her.
I changed in the locker room. Arabella is picking me up. We have tickets to the opera and an early dinner before with some of her friends.
“Hi,” I whisper.
She looks me up and down. I’m in a three-piece suit. It’s opening night for Tosca. We have box seats.
“Hi, Doctor Vincenzo.” There’s no warmth in her tone. No trace of recognition that I’ve held her naked body to mine, that I know the sound she makes when she unravels. She’s sealed herself shut—and I’m the one who taught her how.
“Ah...how are you?”
Merda*! Is that the best you can do, Evan?
Before Navya can answer, I hear Arabella’s voice.
“Evan.”
What the fuck is she doing here? I’d asked her—explicitly—to wait in the car to avoid exactly what’s about to happen.
She walks toward me with unhurried confidence. She’s wearing a black designer dress—the kind that looks effortless because it costs a fortune. Perfect tailoring. No visible logos. Her blonde hair falls in smooth, glossy waves, every strand in place. Jewelry is understated but unmistakably Cartier.
Next to Navya in her scrubs, her hair pulled away from her face, no makeup…the contrast is loud and makes me all but wince.
She stops beside me and rises onto her toes, pressing a brief, proprietary kiss to my lips.
Navya watches.
She doesn’t look away. She simply observes, like a woman taking in a final piece of information she no longer needs.
Navya and I never kissed this way in front of everyone. I never let that happen. I hid her away, and I am now ashamed of myself for that.
I should’ve taken Navya to the opera. She loves good music and a great story.
I introduce them. I have no choice. It would be strange for me not to.
“Arabella, this is Nurse Rana. We work together. Navya, this is Arabella.”
“His fiancée,” Arabella finishes for me, extending a hand, the engagement ring I paid for flashing diamonds. “Nice to meet you.”
Navya takes it without hesitation and shakes politely. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you.” Arabella looks from her to me, as if she can feel the charge in the air. “We have early dinner reservations, and then we’re going to the opera.”
Now, why would she say that? Unless…maybe she can see it, feel what’s between Navya and me, what couldn’t be erased no matter how I tried.
Navya smiles. “How wonderful.”
“It’s opening night of Tosca,” Arabella informs her unnecessarily and wraps around me. She’s claiming ownership. She’s wearing my ring on her finger and me on her arm.
Navya steps back, a broad, gracious smile on her face. “Enjoy your evening.”
“We’d better hurry, we have dinner reservations with Jade and Jackson,” Arabella urges me on, and that’s another strike against me.
I never took Navya to meet people I know, I let her cook most of the time because that meant I could stay in her peaceful presence without worrying about someone seeing us together—or coming up with out-of-the-way restaurants to take her to.
I’m glad she didn’t know what I was doing because that was insulting, and I didn’t see it until now. A flush of guilt creeps up inside of me, filling me with shame.
Navya walks away, her eyes on the chart she’s holding, already moving on, talking to another nurse about the patient in bed eight.
It affects me in a way I didn’t expect.
It hurts to know she’s not mine anymore.
It distresses me that Navya isn’t waiting for me.
She isn’t hoping I’ll come back.
She’s already moved on.
And as I let Arabella loop her arm through mine and lead me toward the exit, I realize something with brutal clarity—I am walking away with the right woman on paper and leaving the only one who ever made me feel like myself.
Arabella’s PA booked us a table at Absinthe, two blocks from the opera house.
It’s just the kind of place people like us go to. I never took Navya out like this…except that first night. The apology dinner.
We’re seated quickly—Arabella knows the ma?tre d’ by name.
There’s a fixed opera menu printed on thick cream paper. Efficient and indulgent.
Jade and Jackson arrive moments later.
Jade kisses Arabella’s cheeks—air and perfume, then does the same to me.
She’s stunning in a way that’s been manufactured—hair, dress, face all assembled with care and cash. Jackson shakes my hand, distracted, already searching the room for someone more valuable to be seen by.
“Opening night is always such a circus.” Jade slides into her chair that the ma?tre d’ holds for her. “We were at La Scala last year for Aida, and that was such a crush. Honestly, this is charming by comparison.”
Arabella makes a scoffing sound. “Opera houses in the US cannot compare to Europe, chérie*. But we have to make do, because Evan here insists on being a surgeon.”
She’s proud that I’m a surgeon because that means I have intellect—and I’m a Vincenzo, so that means I have money. Perfect combination for arm candy.
Jackson orders the wine after discussing it with the sommelier. He mentions a small vineyard in Burgundy and then ultimately orders a Montrachet, not a small vineyard at all. That was him showing off, letting everyone know he knows wine.
The conversation, which is boring as fuck, flows like this…
Opera houses.
Foundation boards.
A mutual acquaintance’s divorce—handled discreetly, thank God.
A fundraiser in Napa, where an important donor was seated next to an ex, a vintner who made a scene.
I nod.
I contribute when necessary.
I know how to do this.
I’ve done it my entire life.
I always thought it was boring. No change in that.
But now I resent it.
I want to be with Navya in her apartment, with her sitting cross-legged on her couch, arguing that Gatsby was a stalker and what Daisy needed was a rape whistle and a restraining order.
I want to hear her talk about her friend, Latika, and her brother, with whom she has a genuine friendship—one that is earned, not a fait accompli because they’re from the same social circle or share the same blood.
I want to have dinner at her place, where the food matters because she made it, not because someone else decided it’s worthy.
“Evan,” Jade says suddenly, pulling me back. “Arabella tells us the hospital is…intense.”
I smile automatically. “It can be.”
“Couldn’t do it,” she says breezily. “All that blood.”
Jackson chuckles. “I’d pass out.”
I think of Navya in the OR—steady hands, calm voice, competence that never asks for applause.
Arabella’s hand rests possessively on my arm. “Evan’s brilliant. But he works too much.”
It’s said fondly—a line she’s practiced to show off her neurosurgeon fiancé.
The food arrives—beautifully plated, technically flawless. Duck confit. Perfect pommes purée. Everything tastes exactly as it should.
And yet, I eat without appetite.
At some point, Jade leans in and lowers her voice. “So, when’s the wedding?”
Arabella smiles. Wide. Satisfied. “He won’t give me a date. Says he’s busy.”
“Oh, come on, Evan, you’re just a surgeon, Arabella runs US operations for Vincenzo Oils & Wine. I think she must be busier than you,” Jackson quips.
“We’ll announce a date as soon as we decide upon it.” My tone borders on rude, and the icy glare I send Arabella’s way tells her not to rope her friends into pushing me to set a date. It isn’t going to happen.
But it is, Evan. Nonno wants to be at the wedding. There isn’t much time.
After an uncomfortable pause, Jade titters about something, and the others join in.
I take a sip of wine and realize, with startling clarity, that the people around me are performing versions of themselves they perfected years ago. Me included. Everyone is impressive. No one is real.
I think of Navya again—how she laughed too loudly, how she talked with her hands, how she never once made me feel like I had to be anything other than myself.
As Jade, Jackson, and Arabella talk about the latest troubles around the Euro, her arm slipped through mine, us walking to the opera house—all I can think is that I left something real and honest behind in a hospital corridor for something real and deceptive in the box of the opera house.
* Shit (Italian)
* Dear (French)