18. Casey
New Year’s Eve has never felt quieter. Not outside, obviously.
Outside, Aspen is doing what Aspen does best—glittering snow, expensive coats, flushed cheeks, laughter spilling from cars and lodge doors as people move from one celebration to the next like the whole world has agreed to be beautiful for one night.
Even from inside the house, I can hear it occasionally, the distant cheer of people somewhere down the mountain, the muffled thump of music carried strangely through the cold.
But inside the lodge, everything feels softened. Safe.
Dim lamps. Firelight. The smell of pine and woodsmoke clings to the high-beamed room.
The kind of quiet that makes you lower your voice without meaning to.
It’s what I need right now, more than parties or company.
I just want to see this year out and move on to the next.
I even have twelve grapes in my room to eat at midnight in the hope that it improves my luck.
I’ve told Isabella I’m still tired, and it isn’t a lie, exactly.
My body is better but better doesn’t mean brand new. There’s still heaviness in my limbs if I stand too long, still a dull reminder low in my abdomen that keeps me aware of myself in a way I resent. I’m not in pain the way I was before, but the flare has left its fingerprints everywhere.
That’s the reason I give her. It’s not the only reason.
The other reason is Jasper.
Even though Adriano told me his security team confirmed Jasper and his little family are back in Los Angeles, even though Isabella promised me he won’t get anywhere near me here.
Even though I know, logically, that avoiding a New Year’s Eve party because of a man I left is giving him more power than he deserves, I can’t make myself put on a dress and walk into a room full of strangers tonight.
I don’t want to scan faces.
I don’t want to wonder if he’s somehow there.
I don’t want to brace for impact every second of the night. I want peace.
Staying here in this beautiful lodge is no hardship; watching the lights glitter below is calming.
Isabella doesn’t push, though she watches me for a second too long while Nico helps her into her coat, her dark hair swept back, lipstick perfect, eyes sharp enough to see through every excuse I’ve ever made.
She knows me too well, but my wonderful friend cares enough to not push me and I love her for it.
“You’ll call if you need anything?” she says, smoothing a hand over my arm.
“I’m not dying,” I tell her.
“No, but you’re stubborn and too independent for your own good.”
“I learned from you.”
She smiles, but her expression stays soft. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Go. Look gorgeous. Dance with your terrifyingly handsome husband. Kiss him at midnight. Be disgustingly in love.”
Nico, already waiting by the door, looks over. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
He slides a hand around Isabella’s waist and presses a kiss to her temple, not caring in the slightest that I’m watching. “She likes it when people acknowledge my terrifying qualities.”
“She tolerates them,” Isabella says, but she leans into him anyway.
I wave them off before either of them can say anything else that makes me feel sentimental.
Elena and Rossi left earlier for dinner in town.
Matteo has apparently attached himself to some party where he’ll either charm everyone or start a fight, possibly both, and I assume Adriano is out with Letty somewhere child-friendly and glamorous.
For the first time since arriving, I think I might actually have the lodge to myself.
The thought should be comforting, and it is.
Mostly.
I make it about fifteen minutes before the silence starts to feel too loud.
Not bad. Just large.
The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder than they deserve to be.
I pull on thick socks, wrap myself in a cardigan, and wander out of my room because sitting in bed pretending I’m relaxed feels more pathetic than admitting I want the fire and maybe something to drink.
The hallway is warm underfoot, all polished wood and soft rugs, and the house smells faintly of the cinnamon candles Elena keeps lighting in every room as if she’s personally responsible for making the entire mountain feel festive.
When I reach the main living room, I stop.
Adriano is there.
Not out. Not dressed for a party. Not even working.
He’s sitting on one end of the large leather couch, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a glass of something amber on the table beside him.
The firelight catches against the hard line of his jaw and softens it just enough to make him look almost unguarded.
Not relaxed exactly—Adriano Mancini probably relaxes by issuing instructions to his nervous system—but close.
He looks up as I walk in.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
It’s not awkward, but it feels loaded with unspoken questions. We have yet to discuss the Jasper situation. I’m not sure I want him to know what an idiot I was, but he deserves an explanation. He stepped up for me; he took care of me, which is more than Jasper or any other man ever did for me.
Something about finding him here, alone, in the quiet, feels different from seeing him surrounded by his family. It’s like seeing behind the curtain.
“Oh,” I say, very intelligently, and cringe internally.
His mouth shifts, barely. “Oh?”
“I thought you were out.”
“I was.”
“With Letty?” I ask, again showing the conversational intelligence of Gnat.
He nods, reaching for his glass but not drinking from it. “She ate too much ice cream, insisted she was perfectly fine, then turned green in the car.”
Despite myself I laugh. “Poor thing.”
Adriano quirks a perfect eyebrow. “She disagrees with that assessment. Apparently, it was worth it.”
“That sounds like Letty. She’s a woman of conviction.”
Adriano hums in agreement, but then I see the smile playing around his lips. “She’s asleep now,” he says, glancing toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Slight stomachache, but nothing serious.”
“I can check on her if you want.” The offer is out before I think too hard about it, my body already shifting toward the corridor. “Just to make sure she doesn’t need—”
His hand closes around mine before I take more than a step.
His touch is firm but gentle. Warm fingers around my wrist, steady and certain, and I look down at where he’s holding me before I look back at him.
“She’s fine,” he says quietly. “Stay.”
That one word shouldn’t affect me like it does.
I tell myself it’s the warmth of his hand, the fire, the fact I’m tired, the fact the house is quiet and everyone else is gone and I’m still a little raw from too many things happening too close together. But it isn’t. The fact is, I want to spend time with him.
I sit because he asks in the only way Adriano seems to know how—with very little softness and far too much certainty. But not once does he make me feel guarded or unsafe or manipulated into doing what he asks. He makes me feel valued and respected.
He lets go once I’m beside him, though the place where his fingers were stays warm for a few seconds longer than it should. The phantom sensation of his touch on my skin makes me feel warm in other, more inappropriate, ways.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, turning slightly toward me.
“Better.”
His gaze stays on my face as he tilts his head for me to continue, clearly not satisfied with the one-word answer I give him.
I sigh. “Actually better. Not fake better.”
“That’s good. You look better.”
I blush at his words and then make it worse. “Well, you certainly know how to make a woman feel good.”
His brow quirks again, that damn sexy brow. How are eyebrows even sexy?
“Are you fishing, Casey?”
“Of course not.”
I grab his drink and take a big swig, trying to force the embarrassment away and choke on the taste. “Jesus, is that poison?”
“It’s five-thousand-dollars-a-glass Japanese whiskey. It’s meant to be sipped, not swallowed like a shot.”
I feel the color drain from my face at his words. Five thousand dollars a glass? Jesus Christ. I place a hand over my belly, a queasy feeling rolling with the liquor.
Adriano shifts his body closer, alarm spreading across his features. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” I say, because I know by now that vague answers only make him more determined. “I’m nauseous from the cost of the drink.”
He tilts the now-empty glass, the remnants glistening gold against the crystal. “Any lingering effects from the flare-up?”
“A few. I’m more tired than anything. And a bit sore, but not like before.”
He nods, absorbing that like it’s information he’s filing away for later. That’s the thing with Adriano; he really listens when I speak.
“How long have you dealt with it?”
I stare at the fire for a moment, watching a log collapse inward, sparks rising briefly before disappearing up the chimney. “A long time.”
He doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t make me feel like I’ve been asked a question I have to turn into an apology.
So I keep going. “I had surgery a few years ago. It helped. A lot, actually.” I pull my cardigan tighter around myself, not because I’m cold, but because talking about my body like this still makes me feel weirdly exposed.
“Before that, it was a lot worse. More unpredictable. More… life-interrupting, I suppose. I’d spend almost a week a month completely unable to function. ”
His jaw shifts slightly. “And now?”
“Now it’s better. I can function. I can live my life.
The Mirena IUD helps. Most of the time I don’t even have proper periods anymore, which is why this one annoyed me so much.
I thought I’d escaped them for a while.” I huff out a small laugh, but it’s tired around the edges. “Apparently my uterus had other plans.”
He doesn’t smile the way some men do when women mention anything too specific about their bodies, like they don’t know whether they’re meant to be embarrassed or brave. He just listens.
Really listens.