Chapter 40 Olivia
OLIVIA
The cobblestones of Florence are murder on my feet. The literal millisecond we get home from our day of sightseeing, I collapse onto the villa’s terrace sofa with a groan that wakes half the countryside.
Is it a little melodramatic? Just a teensy-tiny bit? Yes, but Stefan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already kneeling at my feet and pulling my sandals off, his fingers gentle as they work the straps free.
“Better?” he asks.
“Not yet. But getting there.”
He settles onto the ottoman and pulls my feet into his lap. His thumbs press into my arches and I nearly melt into the cushions.
“Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“Don’t stop. Ever. This is your life from now on.”
He chuckles and keeps working, his hands strong and sure. The tension bleeds out of me with every pass of his fingers.
We spent the entire day wandering through Florence. The Uffizi. The Duomo. Ponte Vecchio, where I made Stefan wait while I debated between half a dozen different handmade leather journals as gift options for Camille. He bought all of them without asking.
Then we hit the shops. Stefan insisted I needed new clothes for the trip. I protested. He ignored me. And guess what? He won. Shocker.
Well, I guess I sort of won, too. Now, I have four bags chock full of Italian designer pieces I’ll probably never wear again.
But watching him watch me try things on? Priceless.
As he massages me, my gaze drifts around the room.
My suitcase sits by the bedroom door. Like I have Superman’s X-ray vision, I feel like I can almost see Matvey’s journal tucked carefully inside.
I’ve been waiting for the right moment to show Stefan.
To finally have the conversation we need to have.
It’s been a good day. A good trip, really. Maybe tonight is the night.
I take a breath. “Stefan, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Mhmm?” His thumbs dig into the ball of my foot and I lose my train of thought for a second.
“It’s about your mother.”
His hands pause. Just for a moment. Then they resume their work, but something in his touch has changed. Stiffer. More mechanical. Angry, almost.
“Olivia, we did this already.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it. But I think we should at least consider—”
“The chicken parmigiana for lunch was incredible,” he interrupts. “We should have Giancarlo make it again before we leave.”
I frown. “Stefan, I’m serious.”
“So am I. That eggplant appetizer, too. What was it called?”
“I don’t remember. But Stefan—”
“Melanzane. That’s it.” He presses his thumb into my heel and I wince. “Sorry. Too hard?”
“No, it’s fine. But can we please talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is. Your mother—”
“—is not welcome in our child’s life. End of discussion.”
I sit up, pulling my feet away from his hands. “It’s not the end of discussion. She’s your mother, Stefan. And our baby’s grandmother.”
“Biology doesn’t make her family.”
“I know that. But what if there’s more to the story than you think? What if—?”
A knock at the door cuts me off. Stefan stands. “That’ll be the wine I ordered.”
“Stefan, wait—”
But he’s already crossing the terrace. I watch him go, frustration building in my chest.
Every. Time. Every single time I try to bring this up, something derails it.
The food. The sex. The scenery. All of those things have been great, truly, but at a certain point, we’re gonna have to cross this bridge.
He can’t live and die by this stubborn refusal to even consider the possibility that maybe his version of events isn’t the only version.
I know I’m partly to blame. I let myself get distracted. The tiramisu yesterday was transcendent. And when Stefan kissed me in the Boboli Gardens this afternoon, I forgot what I was going to say.
But this matters. For Stefan. For Natalia. For our baby.
I need to make him listen.
Stefan returns with a bottle of red and two glasses. He pours one for himself and sparkling water for me. “To us,” he says, raising his glass.
I don’t raise mine. “Stefan.”
“Olivia.”
“Please. Just hear me out.”
He sets his glass down. “I’m listening.”
“Your mother—”
“I thought we just agreed not to talk about her.”
“We didn’t agree to anything. You just refused to discuss it.”
“Because there’s nothing to discuss.”
“There’s everything to discuss! She’s your mother. She carried you for nine months. She raised you.”
“She also fucked my uncle and helped doom my father to an early grave,” he drawls emotionlessly.
“Or maybe she was trapped in an abusive marriage and did what she had to do to survive.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then help me understand. Talk to me. Tell me your side.”
“I’ve told you my side.”
“You’ve told me the version you’ve been carrying for fifteen years. But what if it’s not the whole truth?”
“It is the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was there, Olivia. I saw what she did. I saw—” He stops. His hands curl into fists on his thighs.
I reach for him. “Stefan.”
He pulls away and stands. Walks to the edge of the terrace and pauses there, looking out over the vista. His back is rigid, shoulders tight, radiating discomfort from every pore.
I give him a moment. Then I join him at the railing. “I’m not trying to upset you,” I say softly. “I just think—”
“I know what you think. You think I should forgive her. Give her a chance, let her be part of our lives. Kumba-fucking-ya.”
“I think you should at least hear her side of the story. That’s all.”
“I don’t need to hear her side. I know what happened.”
“But what if you don’t? What if there are things you don’t know? Things that would change how you see it?”
He turns to me. His eyes are cold, distant, and above all, merciless. “Nothing will change how I see it.”
“Stefan—”
“Drop it, Olivia. Please. I won’t ask again.”
The please gets me. I want so badly to push.
Should I pull out the journal and make him read it?
Should I stick his face in the pages like a misbehaving puppy until he sees, until he has to see, that his father wasn’t the saint he remembers and his mother wasn’t the villain he’s convinced himself she was?
But looking at him now, at the pain etched into every line of his face, I can’t do it.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”
“Thank you.”
We stand there in silence. The sun is setting behind the hills.
It’s so beautiful that it doesn’t feel real.
This whole trip has that too-good-to-be-true feeling.
I keep pinching myself, waiting for the rude awakening that I know will eventually come.
That’s my life, after all—no good things are allowed without a bad taste at the end.
Stefan’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and silences it without reading the message.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine. Just Taras checking in.”
“Is there trouble back home?”
“Everything is fine. Nothing for you to worry about.”
I study his profile. There’s something in his expression. Something distracted. Like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“Important things.”
“What kind of important things?”
He smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Before I can ask what that means, another knock sounds at the door.
“It’s Grand freaking Central in here tonight,” I grumble.
Stefan’s eyes twinkle. “That’ll be Mariolina.”
“What does she want?”
“I asked her to bring us some dessert.”
“Stefan, I’m still full from lunch.”
“Trust me. You’ll want this.”
He crosses to the door and opens it. But instead of Mariolina with a tray of pastries, it’s Giancarlo. And he looks worried.
“Signore Safonov,” he begins, sounding almost flustered. “C’è un incendio nel giardino.”
I’ve picked up enough Italian to get the gist of what he’s saying. There’s a fire in the garden.
Stefan’s entire body goes rigid. “What?”
“Fuoco. Fire. In the garden.”
Stefan leaps into action. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs. We rush down the stairs together. Through the villa, out the back doors and into the garden. The smell of smoke hits me first. Then I see the glow. Orange and flickering. Dancing in the darkness.
My heart lurches. “Oh my God—!”
Stefan’s grip on my hand tightens. We round the corner and—
I stop.
It’s not a fire.
It’s candles.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Arranged in neat rows across the lawn. And in the center, spelled out in flickering light:
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
My breath catches. I turn to Stefan. He’s watching me, eyes hooded, face calm. “What is this?” I whisper.
“You’re a smart woman.” He smiles. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”
“But you… I… We... I didn’t think marriage was something you wanted?”
“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Until I met you. You’re the only woman who can bring me to my knees, lisichka.”
And that’s exactly what happens. He drops to one knee right there in the garden, surrounded by candlelight and the scent of roses. From his pocket, he pulls out a small velvet box.
My hands fly to my mouth.
“Olivia Aster.” He opens the box. Inside is the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen, a solitaire diamond that catches the candlelight and throws it back in a thousand directions.
“I already want you to be the mother of my child. But now, I’m asking you to be my partner, my person, my wife. Will you?”
Tears blur my vision. I can barely see him through them. “Yes,” I manage. “Yes, of course I will.”
He stands and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. No surprises there.
Then he’s kissing me. His hands frame my face and I taste salt from my own tears on his lips. “How did you—when did you—”
“I’ve been planning this since we left Boston.”
“The whole trip?”
“The whole trip.”
“That’s why you were so distracted.”
“I was terrified you’d say no.”
I laugh through my tears. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot now.”
He kisses me again. Around us, the candles flicker. The garden glows. And for this one perfect moment, there’s nothing else in the world but us.