Chapter 20
YOU WERE A SNOB
EVAN
Arabella doesn’t cry. That’s not her style.
She throws a crystal tumbler at my wall. That’s her style.
It shatters just to the left of an original Morandi print—one I’ve never liked since the interior designer insisted on it, but I never bothered to remove.
The sound is sharp and violent, completely at odds with the carefully curated woman in my living room: hair immaculate, lipstick flawless, fury incandescent.
I invited her home for drinks. I thought it would be civilized, so I poured a glass of whiskey for each of us. We sat across from each other. She was on the couch, I on the armchair. Until I told her we were done.
I’m still sitting but she’s standing over me after having broken a thousand-dollar crystal.
“So,” she says, breathless. “It’s the nurse.”
I stare at her. “What?”
She laughs—high, brittle. “Don’t insult me by pretending I don’t know.”
I feel exposed in an unpleasant way. Navya and I were months ago. I broke it off with her before I took a step with Arabella. If she knows….
She takes a step back and sneers. “Are you really stupid enough to think I wouldn’t look into you?”
My brain does a quick reboot.
“Did you have me investigated, Arabella? Even before you and I were together?”
She fixes me with a sharp, venomous stare. “Discretion is a skill you need to develop.”
Rage floods my veins, sudden and absolute, and for once I’m not sure I can rein it in.
Was someone following us? Watching Navya and me together? Taking photos and reporting back to Arabella?
The thought makes my jaw lock. That kind of invasion—of Navya, of her privacy—is unforgivable.
I look at my now ex-fiancée, my voice low and deadly calm. “You crossed a line, Arabella.”
She scoffs. “Oh, please. You crossed it first. Sleeping with staff? A nurse?” Her lip curls. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is?”
A jagged laugh tears out of me because those were the exact thoughts that once ran through my head, too. It was naked and unashamed snobbery.
But I’m not that man any longer.
Not after I’ve learned what humility actually costs.
Not after I’ve learned who I am—and who I want to be.
Not after realizing that becoming a better man means unlearning the worst parts of myself.
I pick up my glass of whiskey from the coffee table and rest against the back of the chair. I am supremely confident about what I’m doing—and that feeling of rightness propels me.
I take a sip and enjoy the burn of the Hibiki. “I’m calling the engagement off, Arabella,” I tell her again, clearly.
Her expression flickers with uncertainty. “You don’t mean that.”
“Have you known me to say things I don’t mean?” I ask softly, my eyes on her.
There’s an overwhelming sense of relief in doing this.
I know—without doubt—that I’ve just saved myself from making a terrible mistake.
I wish I’d had this clarity four months ago, when I ended things with Navya. I wish I’d understood myself better, or bothered to look closely enough to see what was already there.
Because I was in love with her then.
And I still am now.
Arabella arches a brow—her stare drips with disdain. “You don’t get to humiliate me, Evan.”
I fix my gaze on her, weighing my next words. “I am not humiliating you, Arabella. I’m choosing what’s best for me…and even though you don’t see it and may never, what’s best for you. We’re a poor match.”
She shakes her head in disbelief, and then malice enters her eyes, blue and beautiful as they are. “If you think I’ll go quietly, you’re mistaken. I know where she works. I know who she answers to. One phone call—”
“Finish that sentence,” I cut her off calmly, “and I will end you.”
She freezes.
“I will make sure you never work for Vincenzo Wine & Oils again,” I continue. “I will personally see to it that you’re back in Italy before you can finish packing.”
“You wouldn’t,” she protests, but there’s a flash of doubt now.
“I absolutely would,” I confirm. “And this conversation is the last time you will ever speak her name.”
She sweeps across the room and crouches in front of me like we’re in some Victorian movie. She puts her hands on my thighs. “Evan, we’re meant to be together. Your family and mine…we are—”
“Friends,” I finish for her. “Family friends.”
Her hands shake. “You’re choosing her?”
I smile sadly because that’s not what I’m doing—even if indirectly it is. “No, Arabella, I’m choosing myself.”
She stares at me like she’s never seen me before. Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe I’ve been hiding from myself for years.
She stands up on unsteadily legs, steps away. “Nonno will not forgive you for this.”
I know that it is entirely possible. I’m prepared for that eventuality. “And that will be my burden to carry.”
Now, tears fill her eyes, and I wonder, almost distantly, if she’s putting on a performance. The Arabella I have gotten to know better in the past months is a chameleon. She changes as the scene demands.
That would be fine for some people, but not someone like me who left the family business to pursue my passion. And hasn’t that been the root cause of all this?
I am guilty of not working at Vincenzo Wine & Oils.
I am guilty of going to medical school instead of business school.
I believe I owe the family, which is why I agreed to marry Arabella.
These were ignoble reasons to be with someone. Nonna’s death, my fear for Nonno’s health, my guilt, and my upbringing in general led me down a path that I may never recover from. I may never win Navya back, and I’ll have to forever live knowing I hurt a good woman and lost the love of my life.
“Don’t do this, Evan.” Her words are a plea, but her demeanor is not. I’m grateful for it. I’m not worthy of pleas, even from Arabella.
I set my glass down and move closer to her—this woman I was blindly going to marry, the woman whose life I would’ve ruined right along with mine.
“You need to find someone you actually love,” I say evenly. “Or at least want. You shouldn’t marry to enhance your career.”
She jerks my hands off her shoulders. “I’ve worked my whole life to become CEO of Vincenzo Wine & Oils. If my last name isn’t Vincenzo, I can’t do that.”
I throw my hands up, finally done. She’s not listening to understand—only to defend. That relentless, goal-oriented bullheadedness? Fantastic for business. Absolute shit for anything resembling personal growth.
“I have several unmarried cousins,” I say flatly. “If the last name is what you want, pick one. Edoarda is single and—”
She slaps me.
“Arabella—.”
She swings again. This time, I catch her wrist before it reaches my face. “One time”—I hold her gaze—“I deserved it. This second time? No.”
She yanks her hand free, breathing hard. “Are you really going to throw us away,” she spits, “for a woman who will never belong in your world?”
I let out a long sigh. I need this conversation to end because we’re going in circles. I need to get to Napa and talk to Nonno, explain to him where I’m at.
“First. There is no us. There has never been. Second. I’m not calling our engagement off because of anyone but the fact that you and I are not good together. And third, the woman you talk of, she belongs wherever she decides to stand.” I pause. “And, Arabella, you will stay the hell away from her.”
“I’m going to quit my job, and then you can explain to your parents why I did that.” she threatens.
I shrug, amused. “You do whatever you want to do. I don’t care. And you should know better than anyone, as you’ve been a corporate animal for a long time—no one is indispensable. You leave, the board will find a replacement in days.”
She storms away and leaves behind silence.
But this quiet is different from what it was just a few days, hours ago. This noiselessness is peaceful.