Chapter 12 Marco
MARCO
The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the rooftop railing like a promise Marco had stopped believing in years ago.
He stood at the edge of the party, champagne flute in hand, watching the usual suspects perform their usual roles.
Trust fund heirs laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny.
Models posing for phones that never stopped clicking.
Publicists steering their clients toward photographers positioned at strategic angles.
The whole elaborate dance of people pretending to have fun while calculating what the night could do for their careers.
The champagne was Dom Pérignon. The view was worth a million bucks. And he felt absolutely nothing.
“You look thrilled to be here.” Colton appeared at his elbow, his own glass untouched. Unlike Marco, Colton hadn’t quite mastered the art of looking effortlessly bored at these events. His discomfort still showed in the tension across his shoulders, the way his eyes kept scanning for exits.
“I’m ecstatic.” Marco took a sip of champagne he didn’t taste. “Can’t you tell?”
“You’ve got your ‘please God let a meteor hit this building’ face on.”
“That obvious?”
“Only to me.” Colton leaned against the railing beside him, turning his back on the crowd. “Everyone else thinks you’re being mysteriously European.”
Marco snorted. “Mysteriously European. I’ll add that to my list of talents.”
Behind them, someone shrieked with laughter—the fake kind that carried across rooftops and into Instagram reels.
Marco didn’t bother looking. He’d been to enough of these parties to know exactly what he’d see.
Someone throwing their head back, champagne sloshing dangerously, while friends clustered around to capture the moment from every conceivable angle.
“When did this get old?” Colton asked.
“Speak for yourself. I’m a youthful twenty-four.”
“You know what I mean.” Colton gestured vaguely at the party behind them. “This used to be fun. Remember? Or at least I think I remember it being fun.”
Marco considered the question. There had been a time in the early days of his modeling career when parties like this had felt exciting.
The thrill of being seen, of being wanted, of having doors open simply because you looked a certain way or had a certain name.
But somewhere along the line, the thrill had curdled into something duller.
Now every party felt like the same party, every conversation like a script he’d memorized without meaning to.
“It was fun when we didn’t know any better,” he said finally. “Before we realized none of it matters.”
Colton was quiet for a moment, staring out at the city lights. When he spoke again, his voice was different—softer, with an edge that might have been pain.
“I miss her.”
Marco didn’t have to ask who. Colton had been moping about Ally for months now, ever since whatever had happened between them in the winter.
He’d never gotten the full story, but he could piece enough together.
Ally hadn’t wanted this life. Colton hadn’t been ready to give it up.
And now his friend spent every party nursing a single drink and looking like someone had stolen something essential from him.
“Have you called her?”
“To say what?” Colton’s laugh was bitter. “Hey, I’m still doing all the things you didn’t want me to do, but I’m miserable about it now—does that help?”
“You could try being honest.”
“Rich, coming from you.” But there was no heat in it.
Colton ran a hand through his hair. “I just... I had something real, you know? For the first time in years, I had something that wasn’t about baseball or sponsors or my face on a billboard.
And I let it go because I couldn’t imagine a life that small. ”
“Was it small? Or was it just different?”
Colton looked at him sharply. “When did you get so philosophical?”
“Side effect of too many rooftop parties.” Marco drained the rest of his champagne. “They give you time to think about all the choices you’ve made.”
A woman materialized at his side—tall, blonde, wearing a dress that cost more than most cars and left little to the imagination. She slipped her arm through his, pressing close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something expensive and floral that would probably give him a headache later.
“Marco.” Her voice was a practiced purr. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
He searched his memory for her name and came up empty. They’d met before—he was almost certain of that much. Some fashion week event, maybe, or a mutual friend’s birthday. She had the kind of face that photographed well and blended into every other beautiful face at every other party.
“Have you?” He smiled the smile he’d perfected at age twelve, the one that made everyone feel important while revealing absolutely nothing.
“Come dance with me.” She tugged at his arm. “It’s criminal for us to be standing here when there’s music.”
The music was a forgettable, bass-heavy track pumping from speakers positioned around the rooftop. The “dancing” would consist of swaying attractively while someone’s phone captured content for tomorrow’s social media feeds.
“Rain check?” Marco gently extricated his arm. “I’m catching up with a friend.”
Her pout was equally practiced. “Don’t take too long.” She drifted away, already scanning the crowd for her next target.
“Smooth,” Colton said.
“What was her name?” He let out a world weary sigh.
“You’re asking me?”
“I was hoping you’d remember.”
“Starts with a K, maybe? Or a C?” Colton shook his head. “They all blend together after a while.”
Marco grabbed another champagne from a passing server, more to have something to do with his hands than because he wanted it. The flute was cold against his palm, the bubbles catching the light from the city below.
He thought about Miami.
Not the Miami of fashion week parties and club openings, but of a single night almost eight months ago.
A girl with honey-blonde hair who’d refused to tell him her name.
Who’d laughed at his attempts to impress her.
Who’d wanted to know him—not Marco Castellano, heir to a fashion empire, but just him. A man at a club with nothing to prove.
They’d danced for hours. She’d been wild and free and completely uninterested in who he was or what he could offer her. When he’d tried to tell her about himself, she’d pressed a finger to his lips and shaken her head. No names. No stories. Just this.
It had been the most authentic night he’d had in years.
He’d laughed, real laughter, and wanted the night to never end.
And when he’d woken up the next morning, she was gone.
No note. No number. Nothing but the faint scent of her perfume on his sheets and a hollow ache in his chest that he still couldn’t quite explain.
He’d looked for her afterward. Had gone back to the club multiple times, something he never did. But how did you find a woman whose name you didn’t know, who’d deliberately left no trace?
She probably had a whole life and was ridiculously happy. A boyfriend, maybe. A career. People who knew her real name and her real story. He’d never met someone so full of life, with a light flowing through her veins.
And Marco was still here, at another rooftop party, surrounded by people whose names he couldn’t remember, wondering when his life had become so empty.
“I need to get out of here,” he said.
Colton straightened. “The party?”
“All of it.” The words surprised him as much as they seemed to surprise Colton. “This. The parties. The photo ops. The—” He gestured at the crowd, at the champagne, at the glittering skyline. “I’m tired of feeling nothing.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Marco didn’t have an answer. He’d been raised to be the face of the Castellano brand, to charm and smile and show up at all the right places. He didn’t know how to be anything else.
His phone buzzed with a text from his sister, Sophia.
Father’s asking where you are. Apparently, the Brioni people wanted photos.
Tell him I’ll send apologies tomorrow. I’m leaving.
Three dots appeared.
Are you okay?
He pocketed the phone without responding.
“I’m heading out,” he told Colton. “You staying?”
Colton looked around the rooftop one more time, at the party that had once seemed so important. “You know what? I’m right behind you.”
They wound their way through the crowd, dodging outstretched phones and half-hearted attempts at conversation.
The elevator took forever, but finally they were in the lobby, then out on the street, the summer night air thick and humid but somehow easier to breathe than the filtered coolness of the rooftop.
“Where to?” Colton asked.
Marco started walking, with no destination in mind, just moving. “There’s a dive bar on Ninth I’ve been meaning to try. No VIP section, no photographers, no one who knows who we are.”
“Sounds perfect.” Colton fell into step beside him. “You know, I’ve been thinking about going back to Blueberry Hill. Not to win her back or anything, just... to see if I remember who I was when I was there.”
“And who was that?”
“Someone who built things instead of just showing up for them.” Colton was quiet for a moment. “Someone who actually liked himself.”
Marco didn’t respond, but the words stayed with him as they walked, past the bodegas and the late-night pizza joints, into the anonymous darkness of a city full of people.
Somewhere back in Miami, a woman with honey-blonde hair was living a life he’d never know about. And somewhere in these mountains Colton kept talking about, there was apparently a version of his friend who didn’t look quite so lost.
Maybe there was a version of Marco somewhere too. He just had to figure out where to look.
“This the place?” Colton nodded toward a neon sign flickering above a narrow doorway. O’Malley’s.
“This is it.” Marco pushed open the door. The smell of cheap beer and peanut shells hit him immediately—nothing like the champagne and expensive perfume of the rooftop. “First round’s on me.”
They stepped inside, leaving the glittering skyline behind.