Chapter 25
MARCO
The dock stretched out over water that looked like liquid fire.
Marco had been walking the lake path for an hour, watching the sun drop behind the mountains, turning everything gold and orange and shades of pink that shouldn’t exist outside paintings.
He should have been back at the inn—Colton had mentioned dinner with Ally’s family—but his feet kept carrying him along the shore, past the waterfall, past the cottages, to this quiet stretch where the old wooden dock jutted into the lake.
He almost walked past her.
She sat at the end, legs dangling over the water, Violet asleep against her chest in a fabric wrap. The dying light caught the honey-blonde of her hair, turning it copper and gold. She looked small out there, silhouetted against all that color.
For five days he’d been trying to talk to her. Five days of notes and careful approaches and watching her flee every time she spotted him. He’d told himself he’d give her space. Wait until she was ready.
But standing here now, watching her hold their daughter—because she was, wasn’t she?—he couldn’t turn around again.
The dock creaked under his feet. She turned, and even from twenty feet away he could see the color drain from her face.
“Don’t.” Her voice came out rough. “Please. Just—don’t.”
“I’ve been trying to give you space.” He stopped at the edge of the dock. “I’ve been trying to do this right. But Christina, I can’t—I need to hear it again, to make sure I didn’t imagine it.”
She didn’t run this time. Maybe she was tired of running. She just sat there, arms wrapped around Violet, eyes fixed on the water.
The air smelled of lake water and the particular sweetness of autumn leaves.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?”
The words broke somewhere in the middle. He’d meant to sound calm, measured. Instead, his voice cracked, raw with something he couldn’t name.
Christina’s shoulders started to shake.
He watched her cry, feeling helpless and desperate and terrified all at once. Violet stirred against her chest, making a soft sound of protest, and Christina pressed a kiss to her daughter’s dark hair.
“Yes.” Barely a whisper. “Yes, she’s yours.”
The breath left his body. He’d known—had known since that morning on the lake path when recognition hit like lightning—had heard her say it, but the shock of seeing her had made him doubt what he heard. Now, hearing her say it, the words resonated within him.
“Please.” Her voice broke on the word. “Please don’t take her from me. I know you have lawyers, I know your family has resources I can’t imagine, but she’s my whole world. She’s everything. Please—”
“Christina.” He moved closer, the dock boards groaning under his weight. “Christina, look at me.”
She turned, and the tears on her face caught the last of the sunset light. He crouched a few feet away, close enough to catch that scent he remembered from Miami—something floral, something soft—mixed now with baby powder and the clean smell of lake air.
“I’m not here to take her.” His voice came out rough. “I just want to understand.”
The words tumbled out of her then, everything she’d held back.
How she hadn’t known who he was that night.
How she’d wanted anonymity, no names, no stories—just one last night of being someone she wasn’t anymore before starting over in Blueberry Hill.
How she’d found out she was pregnant with no way to find him because she didn’t know anything about him.
“When did you find out?” He had to ask. “Who I was?”
“Months later, like I said.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, her other arm still cradling Violet.
“There was a magazine at the grocery store. You and Colton, some fashion spread. That’s when I learned your name.
Marco Castellano. Fashion heir. International playboy.
” The words came out in a rush. “In the article, you said, ‘Settling down is for people who’ve given up on adventure’. ”
He flinched. Those were his words—something he’d said in an interview years ago, projecting the image his father wanted. A man who didn’t care about anything.
“I said that when I was twenty.” His voice was quiet. “They just printed it again. I don’t mean it, not anymore.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” She was crying openly now, tears dripping onto Violet’s blanket.
“All I knew was what I read. The scandals, the women. I imagined your family finding out. Lawyers at my door. Custody battles with Violet caught in the middle. I saw her being labeled a scandal, a mistake, something to be managed.”
“So you never contacted me.” He said it slowly, the reality settling into his bones. “You found out who I was, and you never tried.”
“What would I have said?” Her laugh was hollow. “Hi, we met at a club. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m having your baby? You’d have thought I was after your money.”
He watched her face—the defiance underneath the fear, the fierce protectiveness in every line of her body. She’d chosen to raise their daughter alone rather than risk exposing her to his world.
“I never wanted anything from you.” The words came out fiercely. “Not money, not your name—anything. I just wanted to protect her. Raise her somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, where she could be a normal kid instead of a tabloid headline.”
Marco was quiet, thinking. The sun had dropped below the mountains, the sky shifting from orange to purple, stars beginning to emerge. The lake had gone still and dark, mirroring the color overhead.
“Her name,” he said finally. “What’s her full name?”
“Violet. Violet Frida Singleton.”
He repeated it softly, tasting the words. Letting it settle into the spaces that had felt empty for so long. “May I hold her?”
Christina hesitated, and he could see the war playing out across her features—every instinct screaming to protect, to shield. But something in his face must have reached her, because slowly, she shifted Violet in her arms, then held her out to him.
Gently, he held her in his arms. She was perfect.
Dark hair, still wispy and new. Tiny rosebud lips.
Cheeks flushed pink from sleep. And when her eyes fluttered open—disturbed by the movement—he saw his own eyes looking back at him.
Green, edged with gold. The Castellano eyes his grandmother had always been so proud of.
“Oh.” The sound escaped him. “Oh, God.”
Emotion flooded through him.
“I didn’t know.” His voice was hoarse. “I would have—if I’d known—”
“What would you have done?” Christina’s question was gentle but pointed. “Honestly?”
He thought about who he’d been eleven months ago—the empty parties, the meaningless relationships, the desperate search for something real.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was a different person. I’m not sure I would have known how to be what she needed.”
“And now?”
Marco looked down at Violet—at his daughter—sleeping in his arms. At the woman who’d chosen to raise her alone rather than risk exposing her to his world. And at the sunset fading over mountains he hadn’t known existed until a week ago.
“I want to try.” The words came out rough but certain.
“I don’t know how to be a father. I don’t know anything about babies or small towns or any of this.
But I know I don’t want to walk away. I’ve spent the last year feeling empty, dreaming of you, and for the first time since that night in Miami, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. ”
Christina searched his face for a long moment.
“I can’t promise anything,” she said finally. “I can’t promise I’ll trust you or that this will be easy or that my family won’t be nosy and annoying.”
“I’m not asking for promises.” He gave Violet back. Then sat back, giving her space. “I’m asking for a chance. To know her. To know you—the real you, not just the woman from that one night in Miami.”
Violet murmured, and Christina automatically began to sway, shushing her softly. The gesture was so natural, so instinctively maternal, that something cracked open in his chest.
“There’s a lot to figure out,” Christina said. “My family knows now. They’re protective.”
“They should be.”
“And I’m not going to Italy or New York. This is her home. This is where I want to raise her.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Her eyes met his, fierce despite the tears still drying on her cheeks. “Because if you’re going to be in her life, it has to be real. Not occasional appearances between parties. She deserves better.”
“She does.” Marco held her gaze. “And so do you.”
The lake had gone fully dark now, the water black and still beneath the stars. Across the shore, lights flickered on in cottage windows. The air had turned chilly, carrying the first real bite of autumn.
“It’s getting cold.” Christina shifted Violet closer. “I should get her inside.”
“Can I walk you back?”
She hesitated. Then nodded.
They walked in silence along the dock, onto the path, up the gentle slope toward the cottage where lights glowed warmly behind the curtains. Their shoulders didn’t touch. Their hands stayed at their sides. But something had shifted—an acknowledgment. A beginning.
At the door, Christina paused.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Come by tomorrow afternoon. You can meet everyone properly.”
“I’d like that.”
She looked at Violet, then at him. “She has your eyes. I noticed it the first time she opened them in the hospital. I knew then I couldn’t hide forever.”
Marco’s throat tightened. “I’m glad you couldn’t.”
She opened the door, warmth and light spilling onto the porch. Then she turned back.
“Marco? That night in Miami. I never forgot it. Or you.”
She stepped inside and closed the door, leaving him on the porch with stars overhead and his whole world rearranged.
The walk back to the inn felt different from all the others—less like wandering, more like heading somewhere. Autumn air crisp against his face, the mountains dark shapes against a starlit sky.