Chapter 59 - Melanie
MELANIE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
“I’ll have that right out,” I said, flashing a smile at the couple before hurrying back toward the kitchen.
From the corner of my eye, I caught my mom standing at the prep station, leaning in as Bianca guided her through the pasta-making process. Flour dusted her fingers, her brows knitted in concentration as she mimicked Bianca’s movements.
“Yes, just like that,” Bianca said, her thick Italian accent smoothing over the words. “A little at a time. And add the flour as you go.”
Mom nodded, biting her lip, her hands clumsy but determined.
I grabbed extra silverware for one of my tables, unable to help the small smile creeping onto my face.
Two weeks in, and she was finally getting the hang of things.
Nick teased her constantly, just enough to make her roll her eyes, but not enough to push her patience.
I tried to go easy on her, letting her find her rhythm.
She hadn’t worked in over a decade, and yet here she was, standing in the middle of our family business, flour on her hands, learning something new.
A sharp smack landed on my ass, making me jump.
“Hey, princess,” Nick’s voice was full of amusement.
I spun around, scowling. “Stop doing that.”
“Hell no,” he said, completely unrepentant. “You’re my wife. I’ll never stop smacking what’s mine.”
His smirk was impossible to resist, the playful glint in his eyes daring me to argue. I bit my lip, fighting back a smile—and losing.
“Who would’ve thought that beneath all that muscle and bravado, the big, tough soldier was just a possessive, love-drunk softie?”
“Only with you, princess,” Nick murmurs, pulling me in. His arms lock around my waist, his hands settling possessively on my ass.
I smirk. “You just love grabbing that thing.”
“Of course,” he says, his voice low, rough with adoration. “I just love touching you. I just love… you.”
I freeze.
Not because I don’t know—God, I do. I’ve known for a while now.
But hearing the words from his mouth? Feeling the weight of them settle over me like a warm embrace?
It’s something else entirely. A power rush.
A revelation. And for the first time in my life, love doesn’t feel like a weapon waiting to hurt me.
Nick’s love isn’t a blade—it’s the thing that’s healing me.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I love you too, soldier.”
“Save it for the bedroom, lovebirds,” Sophia quips as she saunters through the kitchen doors.
“I sat your first table outside. Lucky for you, they’re both here for salads and a nice glass of wine.
They look like they could use a burger down the street, but hey.
” She throws her hands up in mock surrender. “Who am I to judge?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right there.”
“I can take this one,” my mom says, shrugging. “It’s just salads.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sure?”
“Yeah, why not? If you don’t sink, you don’t swim. Plus, it’s nice outside. I could use some fresh air.”
I study her for a second before nodding. “Okay. If you think you’re ready.”
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Nick says with an amused smirk.
My mother and Nick bonded almost instantly when she moved in with us.
At first, I worried about him—about the gun he kept beneath his pillow, about the way his body tensed at every unexpected noise.
I feared his PTSD would consume him, that my mom living with us would only pull him deeper into the past.
But it didn’t.
If anything, it gave him something new to fight for.
A purpose beyond war. Protecting me was already second nature to him, but protecting my mother, too?
He took that on without hesitation, as if she were his own flesh and blood.
He lived for the adrenaline and sense of duty, and I welcomed it for once.
Because he wasn’t just battling ghosts anymore—he was standing guard over the people he loved.
That’s what made him the man he was. A soldier through and through. A hero who would lay down his life for me without a second thought. And knowing that? Seeing the way he cared for my mother simply because she was a part of me?
It made me fall in love with him even more.
It took about a month before she found her own place, but in that time, they grew close. She needed that. Someone in her corner. Because while she was rebuilding, Richard was doing everything in his power to tear her back down—sending hateful texts, threatening that she’d have nothing without him.
But she didn’t break.
Not this time.
Instead, she fired back. Told him if he didn’t sign the divorce papers, she’d leak footage that would destroy his career.
He signed the next day.
According to the tabloids Sophia obsessively follows, he’s already flaunting new women around town, spinning a story that paints him as the victim.
He claims he wanted a divorce because my mom was an alcoholic, that he couldn’t stand by and watch her destroy herself.
And the final straw? Finding her drunk in bed with another man.
It’s the kind of story that sells. The kind that makes people nod along, thinking they know the truth.
But that’s exactly why I’ve spent my life avoiding the tabloids—because unless you’re the one they’re writing about, you never really know what’s real and what’s just another carefully crafted lie.
So much has changed in just four months. It’s exhilarating. Not just for me, but for my mom. She’s becoming her own person again, free and independent, and I couldn’t be prouder.
This week is another first—our restaurant’s first time being open for lunch. Evenings had gotten so packed that Nick and I decided to expand our hours. For now, we open from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., then close for a break before reopening at 4. Until we hire more staff, this schedule works fine.
“You go take a break and eat something,” my mom orders, crossing her arms. “Nick’s right—I’ve got this.”
I sigh. “I already have one control freak in my life. I don’t need another.” I hold up my wrist. “Besides, my monitor didn’t even go off.”
After a long talk with Dr. Nelson, I finally got a CGM—a continuous glucose monitor—so I don’t have to prick my finger five times a day.
He said it would be especially helpful if Nick and I ever decide to have kids.
So now, a small device sits on the back of my upper arm, tracking my levels in real-time.
Nick leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Do as your mother says, Mel,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement. “Unless you want me to bend you over my desk and let her hear just how rebellious you really are.”
Heat coils between my thighs, my heartbeat spiking.
I lift my chin, schooling my face into a blank mask. “You don’t scare me, Nick Consele.”
He smirks, slipping a hand down to squeeze my ass—hard.
“I’ll keep that in mind when I finally take this ass for the first time,” he murmurs, voice dripping with promise. “Let’s see if you’re still talking tough when you’re begging me to stop.”
A shiver rolls through me.
I’d told him I was saving that for our real honeymoon. He wants to remarry and do it the right way, but I don’t need a big wedding. The day we said our vows was the day I truly fell for him. That’s the day everything changed, and I wouldn’t alter a single thing about how we made this real.
No matter how it started.
It was thirty minutes after two o’clock so I decided to join Gabriela and Nick on the patio for a light lunch. It was beautiful out today.
“Really?” I say, my voice sharp as I step onto the patio, the scent of cigarette smoke hitting me like a slap.
Nick barely looks up, feigning innocence as he exhales a slow stream of smoke into the crisp afternoon air.
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me.” I narrow my eyes. “You said you quit.”
“I did.” He takes another drag, unbothered.
“But I’ve been dying to pretend we’re in Italy—sitting on a terrace, watching the locals stroll by, lovers kissing in the golden light, the air thick with garlic and butter from the kitchen.
And it’s been almost six months since my last cigarette, so cut me a little slack. ”
“Don’t expect me to kiss you later.”
“Gross,” Sophia groans, barely looking up from her plate. “I’m happy you guys love each other and all, but can we not do sexy-talk while I’m eating?”
I bite back a laugh, twirling my fork into my mussels and clams linguine.
The sun is warm against my skin, the autumn breeze threading through my hair—something I never got to experience in California.
I used to think it was the best place in the world, a paradise I’d never leave.
But now, the thought of going back turns my stomach.
It’s not the beaches or the hills I hate—it’s him.
My stepfather.
Hollywood.
The corruption runs deeper than anyone wants to admit.
I push the thought away, but the universe has other plans.
“The story just keeps getting worse,” the reporter’s voice cuts through the patio’s soft hum of conversation.
I glance up at the TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant.
“Big T, as the industry calls him—formerly known as Richard Thompson. 120 new allegations have surfaced, vetted and represented. Twenty-five involve minors.”
My stomach turns to stone.
The news plays a montage of him—smiling at the Oscars, shaking hands with powerful men, whispering in the ears of actresses in shimmering gowns. Every image feels like a knife carving into my ribs.
The longer I’m away from him, the more I see him for what he truly is.
A monster.
And no matter how far I run, he always finds a way to haunt me.