Chapter 9 – Enya
I wake to the kind of calmness that feels too perfect. The sheets beside me are cool, the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne lingering like the ghost of someone who left hours ago. Kai’s side of the bed is empty. Again. No surprise there.
My eyes move to the closet door. My gown from last night hangs from a padded hanger, plastic-wrapped and dry-cleaned already. Neatly returned like it wasn’t part of the most emotionally exhausting night I’ve lived through in months. Maybe years.
I sit up, groggy and already irritated. There’s a note on the kitchen counter, propped against the coffee maker. Kai’s handwriting is sharp and precise.
Early meeting. You were breathtaking last night. Let’s do a weekend in Montauk soon? – K
Wonderful.
I read it twice, then crumple it and toss it into the trash.
He left. Again. Without waking me. Without saying anything.
I didn’t even get the chance to talk to him about the gala, not that I was dying to. By the time I got back last night, he was already asleep, sprawled across the bed like the day hadn’t happened. Like showing up at my job unannounced, charming every guest, then pretending it was all a fucking coincidence wasn’t worth discussing.
I drag myself out of bed like I’ve aged a decade overnight. My hair is a mess, flattened on one side, tangled on the other, the remnants of last night’s curling wand effort barely hanging on. I shuffle across the room in one of Kai’s oversized shirts and a pair of mismatched socks.
My reflection in the hallway mirror stops me for half a second. Smudged eyeliner I was too lazy to wash off. Lips chapped. Eyes dull. I look like someone who just rose from the dead. Oh, fuck.
I sigh and head for the kitchen.
I make a face and pour myself a cup of coffee. One sip. Bitter as hell.
“Jesus,” I mutter, dumping it down the sink. “Get it together, Enya.”
But it grates. The way he just…disappeared. The way he’s always gone before things can get uncomfortable. I never wanted to admit how much that bothers me, but maybe it’s about time.
You’re being dramatic, I tell myself. It was just a surprise. That’s all.
But it wasn’t, and I know it.
I pad back into the bedroom, legs sore and achy from standing most of last night. My calves protest at every step, and my lower back twinges like a reminder that heels are not my friend. I pull open the dresser and grab my pants and a soft sweater, letting the oversized shirt fall into the laundry hamper with more force than necessary.
After a long shower and a few minutes of staring into the fogged-up mirror, I pull my hair into a low ponytail and swipe some lip balm across my mouth. No makeup today. I can’t be bothered.
The memory creeps in while I’m brushing my teeth. Last night, in the car on the way back:
“You never told me you were attending,” I said, eyes still sharp from the adrenaline of the night.
“I didn’t realize it mattered,” he replied. “You never mentioned it either.”
But I had. I know I had.
He had nodded. Changed the subject. Smiled like he always does when he’s steering the conversation away from a topic he doesn’t want to discuss.
And that’s what unsettles me most.
Because we used to talk about everything.
Late-night diner booths. Sitting on the stoop of my old apartment until the sun came up. And once, God, it feels like a lifetime ago, during one of our dates, we talked so much during a Broadway showing of Hamilton that the usher asked us to leave.
I remember it in flashes: laughing uncontrollably during Satisfied, whispering about everything from our childhoods to our worst fears like we were the only two people in the world. I remember the sharp look the man in front of us gave when Kai made me giggle during a slow number.
We were kicked out by intermission. We didn’t care.
We sat on the curb outside the theater, our backs against the brick wall, sharing a bag of overpriced candy from the concession stand, talking until our voices went hoarse.
He’d said, “I haven’t felt this comfortable with someone in years.”
“Me, neither.”
We promised never to pretend around each other.
And now?
Now, he doesn’t talk. Not really. He leaves notes. He sends flowers. He smiles in public. But the space between us feels…off.
Too still. Too curated. Like we’re actors in some scene I never agreed to be part of.
Kai is in real estate. A developer. That’s the face he wears for the world.
So, what the hell is he doing attending a gala so heavily tied to one of New York’s oldest mafia families?
I shake the memory away. It’s too much. I throw my purse over my shoulder, slip on loafers, and head for the door.
The Carfano estate feels different today. The buzz from last night is gone. Only the mess remains, the ghosts of a party that lasted longer than it should have. Champagne flutes sit abandoned on corners of tables. Floral arrangements wilt in their silver vases. The marble floors are spotless, but the energy is off.
I pass one of the housekeepers, Anaya, the usually bubbly one with a lilting accent and a habit of singing show tunes under her breath. She’s older, maybe in her late sixties, and walks with the kind of grace that comes from decades of knowing a place better than anyone else. She once told me she’d been working here since Cyril was a boy himself, said she used to catch him sneaking sweets from the pantry when he thought no one was watching. She’s normally the heartbeat of the place, always cracking quiet jokes and sneaking Ren extra cookies when she thinks no one’s looking. Today, however, she just gives me a tired nod as she rearranges a half-empty tray of finger sandwiches leftover from last night. Her apron is wrinkled. Her hair is pinned back sloppily. The sparkle she usually carries like perfume is gone.
“Long night?” I ask gently.
She exhales through her nose, managing the ghost of a smile. “This place hasn’t seen that many high heels since Mr. Carfano’s wedding. I’ve had enough crystal and glitter to last a year.”
I laugh softly. “You and me both.”
She straightens one of the champagne flutes absentmindedly. “And he’s already gone back to his study, no doubt. That man doesn’t rest.”
I glance toward the hallway that leads to Cyril’s study. “He doesn’t seem like the type who knows how to.”
She shrugs and turns back to her work. “Just be careful, Miss Enya. There are too many stories in these halls. And not all of them stay in the past.”
It’s said gently, not as a threat. But it stays with me long after I’ve walked away.
Everyone is quieter than usual. Maybe hungover. Maybe just tired of pretending to be perfect.
I find Ren in the sunroom.
He’s tucked into the corner of a blanket fort we made last week, curled up with a book under his chin and his favorite stuffed rabbit in his lap. The sun pours through the tall windows behind him, casting golden shapes over the cushions and throw blankets. He looks up the instant I step in, and his entire face lights up like someone switched on a lamp inside him.
“You came back,” he says, beaming.
And just like that, every ache in my body dissolves. All the confusion. The worry. The exhaustion. Gone in a flash.
“Of course I did,” I reply, walking toward him as he scrambles up and throws his arms around my neck without hesitation.
I laugh and hug him back, breathing him in. Apples and cinnamon. The faint scent of fabric softener and that wild-child smell kids always have when they’ve been up to no good.
“You look like a marshmallow,” I say, brushing his hair back.
He grins. “I stole extra blankets.”
“No way,” I whisper dramatically. “Rebel.”
He giggles and flops back onto the fort pile, patting the spot beside him.
We spend the next hour coloring. He picks purple for the sky and orange for the trees. I don’t question it. There are no rules in his world, and I like it that way.
“Draw us,” he says, handing me a green crayon.
“Who’s us?” I tease, nudging his shoulder.
“Me, you, and Papa.”
I blink, caught off guard.
He starts sketching again with such focus, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration like always. The drawing takes shape, stick figures, but with purpose. A tall man with empty eyes and a frown, and beside him, a woman with big hair and a crown of stars. They’re standing in a garden full of floating hearts and stars. It’s messy and wild and so full of love it makes my chest ache.
“That’s you,” he says shyly, holding it up for me to see. “And Papa.”
I swallow hard, blink fast.
I smile and say nothing.
“You hungry, wild man?” I ask, ruffling his curls as he rolls over onto his belly.
He props his chin on his hands and nods enthusiastically. “Blueberries. The blueberry and raspberry salad you make. With yummy honey.”
I chuckle. “You mean the one that stains your face for hours?”
He grins widely, showing off a missing tooth. “It’s my favorite.”
“Alright, blueberry bandit. Stay here and don’t turn the sunroom into a jungle again. I’ll be right back.”
I get up and stretch, brushing imaginary lint off my sweater as I step into the hallway.
It’s quiet, but not empty. The hush of recovery after a grand event. I round the corner and nearly bump into Alvise.
He’s leaning against the wall near one of the side rooms, dressed in his usual all-black, sharp and dangerous like he was born in a suit. He nods once.
“Gala didn’t scare you off?”
“Should it have?” I reply, lifting a brow.
He offers a dry smile. “You wouldn’t be here if it did.”
His voice is rough, but there’s a strange softness in the way he says it, like he respects that I showed up again, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.
As I move past him, I catch a glimpse of the iPad in his hand. Security footage flickers across the screen, paused on a frame, several faces circled in red. Time stamps. Angles from different parts of the ballroom last night.
And then I see him.
Kai.
Frozen mid-smile, standing just behind me in the footage.
I force myself not to react and keep walking. Footsteps even. Breathing calm. But my breaths become short.
Are they tracking Kai’s movements? There’s no way. I shake my head. That’s stupid. They must just be looking back at the footage for some weird security issues.
My excuse sounds lame even in my head.
I head for the kitchen, heart ticking just a little faster than before.
The city pulses around me as I step out of the estate and into New York’s streets. The wind slices straight through my coat and scarf like it’s going to rip them away. I can't feel my face, and my hands are already numb even though they’re buried deep in my pockets.
My coat is pulled tight around me, scarf knotted high up to my chin, but it doesn’t do much. The harsh winter wind is raw and bitter, the kind of cold that feels personal. My loafers scuff against the cracked sidewalk as I move faster, trying to generate heat I know won’t come.
People move past me in fast blurs. Blurred faces, blurred voices, the kind of chaos that becomes white noise if you walk through it long enough.
It’s dark already, but the streets are still lit up, neon signs flashing above bodegas and traffic lights blinking like tired eyes. Steam curls out from subway grates. I keep my head down and let the noise buzz around me. It helps. Mostly.
And then I see him. Cyril. He turns around, and I suddenly realize it’s not him, just someone whose hair looks very similar.
The image of him on the balcony last night flashes like lightning behind my eyes. That stare. That voice. The way he looked at me like he wanted to talk. Actually talk. He looked far from the imposing guy who had hired me.
I didn’t see him today.
And the fact that I’m disappointed? That I’m even noticing that?
No. Absolutely not.
I shake my head and practically growl at myself. “Stop it. You have a boyfriend. You are not some swooning idiot.”
But the thought lingers.
And I need it gone.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, thumbing to Sienna’s name in my favorites and pressing call. It rings twice before she picks up.
“Took you long enough,” she says without a hello. “You disappeared after the gala. I assume it wasn’t a fairytale ending?”
I exhale a laugh and get to the point. “It was…strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Kai showed up.”
“Wait…rewind. Rewind. You didn’t go together?”
“No. He never told me he’d be there. And I told him. I know I told him I’d be working. But he acted like it was no big deal, like it was a total coincidence.”
Sienna’s tone changes immediately. Sharper. More awake. “Okay, but why would he lie? Or hide it? And why does a real estate guy give a damn about a mob family’s charity dinner?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, did you ask him?”
I sigh. “I tried. But he brushed it off. Said I never mentioned it. But I did. I know I did.”
“So, what? He just smiled and spun the conversation somewhere else? That old charming routine?”
“God, I don’t know,” I admit, fidgeting with the edge of my scarf. “Maybe. I want to think the best of him. I keep telling myself there has to be an explanation.”
Sienna exhales, and when she speaks again, her tone is firmer. “You’ve got to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt just because it’s easier. You’re not naive, but you’re letting him treat you like you are.”
There’s another pause, the kind where I can practically hear Sienna’s brain working. Then she says, “En, that doesn’t sound like a guy who forgot.”
“He’s never been one to do anything reckless,” I remind her.
Sienna doesn’t say anything. Then, she exhales. “Screw that. What the hell was he doing there in the first place? He’s not a friend of the family. That kind of gala isn’t open-invite. It’s curated. And it’s not neutral ground.”
“I thought maybe it was business,” I murmur. “Some sponsorship thing. A miscommunication. I don’t know…. Maybe I’m just overthinking.”
“En. No. You’re not.”
The firmness in her voice makes me stop walking.
“You’re not dramatic, and you’re some attention seeker who spins stories out of nothing. If your gut is screaming, you need to listen. Always.”
I pause on the corner, watching headlights blur through the mist. “I’m just tired, Si. Everything feels like too much right now.”
“I know,” she says, gentler now. “That’s why you need to breathe. But you also need to see what’s happening. Because if Kai’s starting to lie, even about little things, those cracks aren’t going to get smaller.”
“I just want to believe he’s still the guy who took me to that horrible jazz club just because I said I liked the saxophone,” I murmur.
“And maybe he is,” she says. “But he’s also the guy who didn’t bother telling his girlfriend he’d be attending the same gala as her. You deserve answers. Not puzzles. So, talk to him. Really talk to him. Ask him what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t give you an answer that feels right? You know what to do.”
“Yeah,” I say, but it feels hollow in my chest. Because I already know things aren’t adding up. And I’m not sure I want to know how deep it goes.
As I descend the stairs into the subway station, the roar of an approaching train echoes through the tunnel. The chill fades slightly with the rush of underground warmth, but the knot in my stomach remains.
“Let’s meet soon, okay?” I say into the phone.
“Soon,” Sienna replies. “And keep your eyes open, En. Please.”
I hang up just as the train screeches into the station, and I step into the car, the doors closing behind me with a final, mechanical thud.
Later that night, I’m sitting on the couch with the TV playing Sex and the City, volume low but just enough to keep me from accidentally drifting off. Carrie’s on-screen at brunch with her friends, sipping a pink drink and laughing like her world isn’t built on cracked heels and heartbreak. I’m still in my work clothes, my coat tossed over the arm of the chair, my legs curled under me as I wait for Kai to come home.
Why am I even waiting?
He didn’t say he’d be late. Didn’t say anything at all, actually.
But I wait anyway.
The screen glistens in the dark, casting odd shadows on the walls. My eyes keep darting to the front door, to the clock, to my phone. Nothing.
And then it buzzes.
Kai: Long day. Call you tomorrow. Sleep well, sunshine.
That’s it.
I stare at it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
Without thinking, I throw my phone across the room. It hits the floor with a soft, pathetic thud and skids under the coffee table.
The anger evaporates instantly.
Shit.
I scramble to pick it up and find a long, diagonal crack slicing across the screen.
“Great,” I mutter. “Just great.”
I press the power button and the screen lights up, still functioning, but barely. Another hit like that and it’ll be toast. And I can’t afford a new one right now.
Kai’s been offering to get me a new phone for weeks. Always with that infuriating smile. “Just say the word, baby. I’ve got you.”
But I don’t want his money or his favors. I’ve always been one to handle things on my own. Once I moved to New York and away from my mother, I vowed to myself to take matters into my own hands.
I sink down onto the couch, phone in hand, screen dim and cracked. My heart’s beating too fast and I don’t know if it’s because I’m pissed or because I’m scared of what I’m starting to feel.
Cyril’s gaze from the balcony, steady but electric, burns its way back into my memory.
The way Kai gripped my hand when he entered, like he was staking a claim.
The way my heart beat louder when I looked at one of them…and quieter when I looked at the other.
Maybe love isn’t supposed to make you question yourself.
Maybe it’s supposed to feel like truth.
And maybe I’m starting to ignore mine.