Chapter 01
April
“Ciao, bella,”
Cecily
“I don’t even need to ask who you’re talking to,” Mark says, his tone dripping with mischief. “That smile of yours, the same one I’ve been seeing these past few days... there’s only one person it could be about.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes.
“Alexander Santoro,” he declares, using the worst fake Italian accent I’ve ever heard. He even does the pinched-finger gesture, like a caricature straight out of a movie.
I sigh and turn my phone toward him. “I doubt even you could keep a straight face after this.”
The second he sees the video, Sam darting after a tiny black puppy through a tangle of bushes, Mark bursts out laughing.
“That Italian guy is smooth, huh? Using his dog—and a puppy, no less—to work his way into your heart,” he says with a wicked grin.
“Can you not?” I snatch my phone back, shaking my head. “I’ve told you a million times, he’s just been a good friend. Nothing more.”
And it’s not as if I even have the head, or the heart, for anything like that. Right now, all my focus is on my children, on myself, and on my work.
Nevertheless, I can’t deny it’s been nice having Alexander as a friend.
It continues to surprises me how easily I open up to him.
It’s strange, really, considering we’ve only met three times, and one of those was.
.. less than pleasant. Yet whenever we text or talk—though it’s only been a handful of times over the past weeks—it feels as if we’ve known each other for years.
He’s in Belgium at the moment on business, but he’ll be in New York in two weeks. We’ve already made plans to have lunch on his second day here. And when I think about it, my stomach does that little flip again. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in person since December.
“Fine,” Mark says, throwing up his hands. “You know I’m just teasing you.”
He drops onto the couch in front of me with theatrical despair. “Unfortunately, unlike your best friend here, you don’t believe in my very scientific theory that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Or on top. Equal opportunity, of course.”
I arch a brow, smiling without judgment. “To each their own.”
“But seriously,” he says, his tone softening. “If you need me, I’ll run a full background check on this guy. Browser history included. Just in case our charming Don Juan has any skeletons in his closet.”
I laugh, because of course he’d say that.
“Don Juan was Spanish, not Italian,” I sing-song, teasingly.
Mark narrows his eyes. “Details.”
I just shake my head, smiling as I ask him about the new program he’s coding—the one he was telling me about before I got distracted by my phone. I’d left home early to buy a few supplies and decided to stop by his place for a quick visit before the afternoon rush.
We talk for a while longer and soon enough I’m saying goodbye, heading out to pick up Alicia from school.
As soon as Alicia spots my car, she quickens her pace and pulls open the passenger door.
“He’s not coming today?” she asks, instead of saying hello.
I tap my cheek with my finger. “Not even a kiss or a hi, missy?”
She rolls her eyes but leans in anyway, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before buckling her seatbelt.
I’m continually learning to keep up with all her phases, the constant shifting tides of who she’s becoming. And yet, I can’t stop missing the days when she used to run into my arms without me having to ask.
“Why isn’t he coming today, Mom?”
The he she’s talking about is her father.
Ever since he stepped back from the company—or rather, was forced to—he’s been the one taking her to school and picking her up. We haven’t seen each other since the divorce.
He parks by the driveway every morning, waits for her to come out, and brings her back later in the afternoon, always staying until she’s safely inside before driving away.
He’s also been taking her to ballet practice twice a week. And out for a bite to eat on Saturdays, whenever Alicia feels up to it.
To say I was surprised when he offered would be an understatement. After that first call, I even texted him to make sure he meant it.
He replied: Of course. I’ll take her to school and ballet from now on. You have my word, even if it doesn’t mean anything to you anymore.
And he kept it. Every single time.
Today, though, he had a last-minute change of plans and sent me a text hours ago, asking if I could pick her up. He even said he’d cancel whatever he had if I couldn’t make it.
After he stepped away from the company, I thought he’d find a way to be involved somehow. But from what Oliver told Felicity, it’s Jonathan who’s representing him now.
“Your dad had something come up,” I finally answer as I pull away from the school curb. “But he said he’ll pick you up later for ballet.”
Alicia scoffs under her breath, looking out the window.
“Let’s hope you or Ethan can take me. We both know what happens when he says he’ll make it on time.”
Something inside me aches at the sound of her voice. Sharp where there once was only sweetness and open trust. But I can’t blame her. All I can do is give her time. And space.
“He’s been showing up every day since he started, honey,” I say. “But if he can’t make it later, don’t worry. One of us will take you.”
Alicia plugs her phone into the car’s Bluetooth and starts playing one of her favorite playlists. She’s been listening to the same band so much lately that I already know half the lyrics by heart. We drive the rest of the way in silence.
And I can’t help but hope that today isn’t the beginning of Colin slipping back into old patterns.
“Mom, he wants to talk to you—he’s at the door,” Alicia says, dropping her bag carelessly by the entryway.
She’s still in her ballet leotard and leggings, her hair falling out of its bun. “Dinner’s almost ready, right? I’m starving.”
She looks at me with those pleading eyes she’s long since learned to use to her advantage. I glance at the bag on the floor, then back at her, tilting my head in a silent command.
“I’ll get it later, Mom, I’m hungry now,” she whines.
I shake my head, my tone even but firm.
“You know the rules, Alicia. Pick up your bag. If there’s anything to wash, it goes straight into the basket.” Her shoulders slump, and I add, “Dinner is at least half an hour away. Plenty of time to do that, take a shower, and come down when it’s ready.”
Alicia huffs, snatches her bag, and trudges toward the stairs, muttering under her breath about how I always find something for her to do.
She’s not wrong. The difference is, months ago, she used to do these things without me having to ask.
I draw in a breath and step out onto the porch. Colin stands with his back to me at the top of the steps, but turns the moment he hears the click of the door closing behind me.
It hits me like a wave.
He’s thinner. So much thinner than the last time I saw him.
The sharp planes of his face have turned hollow; his eyes, once steel-gray and alive, are now shadowed and sunken.
There’s a roughness to him—the overgrown hair, the unshaven jaw—that speaks of someone who hasn’t cared for himself in a long time.
My heart sinks. It’s as if our roles have reversed.
Months ago, it was me who looked like that. Drained, sleepless, trying to hold together the pieces of a life that had already fallen apart.
He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve just been standing there, staring.
“Ceci—Cecily,” he says, his voice uncertain. “How are you?”
I pull myself together and step away from the doorway.
“I’m fine. Do you... do you want to come in?”
His eyes flick toward the door behind me, then away.
“N-no,” he stammers. “No, that won’t be necessary. I just need a minute of your time.”
I nod toward the seating area, and he follows me.
Colin sits on the edge of the cushioned rattan chair, tense and upright, while I take the swinging chair across from him.
This piece of furniture came with the house.
I almost replaced it, but I couldn’t. There’s something comforting about the worn edges, the faint creak when the wind moves through.
This house was a true find.
At first, I thought it would be impossible to find something in the same area, I didn’t want to disrupt the kids’ lives any more than I already had.
I also wanted a place with a pool, they’ve always loved swimming.
Lily—my realtor and, at this point, a part-time miracle worker—found this place barely half an hour from where we used to live. It’s even closer to Ethan’s school.
When the kids came to see it, we all knew right away. It felt like a fresh start.
It’s smaller, yes, but cozier. Ours.
The house has five bedrooms and a small office where I can write in peace.
There’s a spacious dining room for family dinners and a large kitchen bathed in light, its windows opening to the backyard.
Outside, the pool and barbecue area sit side by side, framed by a narrow garden along the left side of the house.
I have no idea what to do with the flower beds—I’ve never had a green thumb—so I’ll probably just hire someone to plant something simple that can grow on its own.
“I bought a place,” Colin says suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“A penthouse. The realtor called to let me know that after weeks of negotiations, the previous owner was finally ready to close the deal. The only time he could fit me in was when I was supposed to pick up Alicia. That’s why I couldn’t go. ”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I hadn’t realized he’d been looking for something new. I assumed he’d move back into the other house once we left.
“It’s not far,” he continues, his gaze fixed on the coffee table instead of me. “Maybe twenty minutes from here. I told Alicia about it, but she didn’t seem interested. Even when I asked if she wanted to pick out things for her new room, she just said, ‘Maybe one day.’”
My heart aches for both of them. They were always so close. Like me and my—no. I won’t go there.
“With time, it’ll get better,” I say evenly. “At first, she barely spoke to anyone. Therapy is helping.”
Colin nods slowly.
“I liked what she did with her hair,” he says after a pause, a smile tugging at his lips as he looks at me. “When I told her that the other day, it was the first time she’s smiled at me since... since that day. Just a small one. But it’s a start.”
I smile at the memory. Alicia bursting through the door last Friday, all determination and drama, announcing she wanted to dye her hair pink.
I knew better than to say no outright. That kind of defiance—at her age, and with all the sudden changes—can so easily turn reckless. So we negotiated.
A few inches at the ends. Temporary color only. At the salon, the stylist used a tinted mask, no bleach. It wasn’t quite the shade she’d imagined, but she liked it anyway. Said at least it wasn’t “like all the other girls.”
“Ethan has a room in the penthouse too,” Colin says, swallowing hard, his gaze dropping again. “If he ever wants to see it, I can leave the keys with you. I don’t need to be there. There’s a movie room, a rooftop terrace... an indoor pool.”
I grip the arm of my chair.
“It sounds... nice.”
He nods, his eyes glinting with something close to regret.
“I just wanted a place the kids might actually want to come to. Even if it’s only once in a while.”
I want to ask why he didn’t just move back into our old house. If he plans to sell it, or what it looks like now that it’s empty. But I don’t ask, because it’s no longer my place to know.
He hesitates, then stands.
“I won’t take up more of your time. I’ll come by early tomorrow to pick up Alicia.”
He starts to walk away, pauses for a heartbeat, and without turning back, murmurs, “Goodbye, Cecily.”
“Goodbye, Colin.”
I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing the cream-colored fabric over my hips.
The dress feels like quiet confidence. Soft and fluid, yet cut with precision. The cross-over bodice seems to know every line of my body. On my feet, a pair of taupe strappy heels ground the look. It’s subtle and sophisticated.
I turn slightly to the side, studying the reflection, wondering if maybe I should change into something simpler. Pants, maybe, and a blouse.
But the weather is too pleasant today. So I stay with this dress—the one Felicity gave me for my birthday—and it fits like it was always meant to.
A glance at the clock tells me I don’t have much time left. Alexander had called yesterday, his voice low and grounded through the phone, to say he was back in New York and wanted to know if our lunch was confirmed. I’d smiled before answering; of course it hadn’t changed.
He’d offered to pick me up, but I declined. That would’ve felt... too much like a date. And this was just lunch. Between friends. Friends who were only beginning to know each other.
I grab my bag and head out.
The drive is smooth, almost soothing. The city feels slower today.
The restaurant he chose isn’t far—not from my house, and not from the building he took me to that day in December. When I pull into the lot, I slow to a stop, the hum of the engine fading as I shift into park.
Through the windshield, I see him.
Alexander.
Standing near the entrance, sunlight brushing over his broad shoulders like a halo. The gray suit he’s wearing is tailored so perfectly to his tall frame that it could’ve been sketched onto him. His shirt is crisp white, the contrast on his sun-kissed skin almost devastating.
For a heartbeat, I stay where I am, fingers clinging to the steering wheel, watching him adjust his cufflink—a calm, measured motion that feels impossibly intimate for something so ordinary.
He runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. Then he looks up. When his ember eyes meet mine through the glass, he starts walking toward me.
I draw in a breath. Grab my purse from the passenger seat. By the time I unbuckle my seatbelt, he’s already there, opening the door, his hand extended to me.
“Alexander,” I whisper.
He helps me out. The moment our fingers touch, I feel a shiver run through me.
When I’m standing, he closes the door, his gaze never leaving my face.
And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts my hand, brushes his lips over my skin, and lets a smile touch his mouth.
“Ciao, bella[I],” he murmurs, his voice rough and unhurried, with a warm quality that rolls through you rather than around you.
It’s only a greeting. But my pulse forgets how to behave.