Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
ZALEA | FLORENCE
It’s been three weeks since I last saw Gabriel, when he left me in Positano.
That day shattered me, and not just because he walked away, but because he did exactly what I’d been terrified he would do.
He proved my fear right. And still, every night since returning to Florence, I’ve kept the adjoining doors between our hotel rooms open.
He hasn’t come back yet like he promised, but his belongings are still in the room, so I’ve been sleeping on his side of the bed, just in case he comes back in the middle of the night.
It sounds pathetic, I know.
He has every right to be hurt that I kept our daughter from him.
I never planned on keeping it a secret this long.
Back then, I told myself I would explain everything when he returned from tour.
But somewhere between grief and anger, I convinced myself he didn’t deserve to know because he hadn’t wanted her in the first place.
I thought maybe he’d ask about the abortion, and maybe that would open the door for the truth, but he never did. Not until Italy. And maybe that should have been a red flag, but I’ve never been good at seeing red flags when it comes to Gabriel.
“Lea, are you alright?”
Giovanna’s voice pulls me back to the present. I blink twice, realizing the whole class is halfway through sketching the model in the centre of the room while I’ve been staring at a blank canvas.
I force a small smile. “Just a bit tired.”
She studies me for a moment, like she knows it’s more than that.
“That’s my fault,” Paolo says from behind her. “Lea was modelling for a painting I’ve been working on. We both lost track of time.”
I stare at him, because I was absolutely not at his studio last night. I was lying in Gabriel’s empty hotel room, staring at the ceiling.
“I see your inspiration has returned then?” Giovanna says brightly. “Fantastico.”
She moves on, leaving Paolo and me in an awkward silence. He offers me a small, knowing smile before turning back to his canvas. I’ve been avoiding his studio for weeks, and now that he’s stopped asking, the guilt has settled in.
“Should we continue working on that painting after class?” I ask, loud enough for Giovanna to hear.
His head snaps up. “Today?”
“If you’re free,” I add quickly.
A warm smile spreads across his face. “I’m free.”
I nod and turn to my canvas. If I’m going to sit here for the next three hours, I might as well try to be productive instead of mourning a man who left me—again. I begin sketching the model but I’m not great at it, regardless of the fact that Giovanna insists I’m a natural.
She says my style leans toward impressionism, but to me, my work always looks like chicken scratch. But who am I to argue with Giovanna Colonna?
By the end of the class, I finished the sketch and start blocking in the base colours. It’s messy and unfinished, but it might actually turn into something I’m proud of.
“Cover your canvases. We’ll continue tomorrow,” Giovanna calls.
While I drape parchment over mine, Paolo steps beside me. “It’s going to be beautiful,” he says, studying it before it disappears.
I laugh softly. “I hope so.”
“Do you need to stop off at your hotel before we go to the studio?”
I hesitate, because as much as I’d rather go straight there, I know I’ll spend the entire time wondering if Gabriel came back.
“Let’s stop at the hotel so I can change into something more comfortable.” He nods, and we begin the short walk.
“You’ve been very busy lately,” he says once we’re outside. “I was worried you’d changed your mind about modelling for me.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just been dealing with some things.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I glance at him. He looks like he genuinely wants to know, but I can’t relive it again. Not until I hear from Gabriel.
“Not really.” I give him an apologetic smile.
He nods. “Okay.”
When we reach the hotel, Paolo waits in the lobby while I head upstairs, but as soon as the elevator doors open, I see a cleaner exiting Gabriel’s room. My heart slams against my ribs as I rush to my door, unlock it, and step inside.
The adjoining doors are closed and his car key is gone from my nightstand.
No.
I sprint back into the hallway. “Excuse me!” I call, my voice already shaking. “Has the guest in that room returned?”
The cleaner looks startled. “No. The guest checked out this morning.”
Checked out?
“What time?” I whisper.
“I—I’m not sure. The front desk would know.”
I don’t wait as I run for the elevator. When the doors open into the lobby, I rush to the desk and Paolo hurries after me.
“Lea, what’s wrong?”
“Excuse me,” I say breathlessly to the man behind the counter but he doesn’t respond.
“Mi scusi, signore, è occupato?” *Paolo steps in smoothly.
The man turns. “Come posso aiutarti?”*
“He doesn’t speak English,” Paolo says gently to me. “I’ll translate.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Can you ask him if the guest from room 611 left anything behind when he checked out?”
Paolo relays the question and the receptionist types something, scanning the screen before he nods.
“Si.”
He asks for my ID, and I pull my passport from my bag and hand it to him.
After he’s double checked the details with whatever is written on his monitor, he bends down and retrieves a white envelope from beneath the counter with my name written on it.
My breath catches as he hands it to me and I tear it open, finding a key and a folded piece of paper inside.
The key to the apartment. — G
He came back, and I missed him.
Below the note is the address to our new home which I’d completely forgotten about given everything else that’s been going on.
I look up at Paolo, tears blurring my vision. “I need to go here,” I say, my voice trembling as I point to the address. “Now.”
“Go change,” he says immediately. “I’ll get my car. It’ll be faster than a taxi.”
I nod and race back to the elevator while he runs outside, and once I’m in my room, I pull on a grey sweatsuit and begin throwing everything I own into my suitcase. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely zip it closed.
When I double check the closet, I realize the dresses Gabriel bought me in Positano are gone, and for a split second, my stomach drops.
Did he take them back to return them? Can he erase me that easily?
But I shove the thought away because I don’t care about the dresses. I just need to know if he’s still here, in Italy, or if I’m already too late. Once everything is packed, I rush back down to the lobby and slap my room key onto the reception counter.
“I’d like to check out,” I say, breathless.
The man behind the desk nods and begins typing. I wait for him to tell me the total, bracing myself for the damage.
Instead, he simply smiles. “Grazie.”
I blink. “How much do I owe?”
“Owe?” he repeats, confused.
“Yes.” I pull out my credit card. “How much?”
He frowns slightly, turns back to his computer, and clicks something. A moment later the printer hums behind him and he tears off the paper before sliding it toward me.
It’s an invoice for my room charge, and it says it’s been paid in full. My eyes drop to the billing details, and I’m not at all surprised to see Gabriel’s name and card listed on file.
Of course he took care of it.
My throat tightens, tears threatening again, but a car horn sounds outside and jolts me back to the present. I thank the man quickly and hurry out, dragging my suitcase behind me.
Paolo is waiting in his small Fiat, but he jumps out to help load my suitcase into the trunk before opening the passenger door for me. I give him the address once he’s inside, and he plugs it into the GPS without question.
We arrive at the apartment in under twenty minutes, and Gabriel’s red convertible is parked exactly where it was the day we viewed the apartment.
“He’s here,” I whisper, already reaching for the door before Paolo has even shifted into park.
He scrambles out after me, grabbing my suitcase as we rush inside. The elevator ride to the thirteenth floor feels endless, and when the doors open, we’re face-to-face with my new apartment door.
My hands shake as I pull the key from the envelope and slide it into the lock, hearing it click as I turn it. I look at Paolo who looks just as tense as I feel, and with a deep breath, I push the door open and find Gabriel sitting at the kitchen island.
My heart ricochets against my ribs.
“Gabriel?” I say softly, stepping inside.
He lifts his head, and one look at his face tells me he’s completely wasted.
“Mio Dio,”* Paolo mutters behind me.
“You came,” Gabriel slurs, eyes barely open as a crooked smile spreads across his face. “I missed you.”
In the twenty-one years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him drunk. Not once. His hair sticks up in every direction like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours.
“Gabriel, what happened?” I ask, moving closer.
“Lea, wait,” Paolo warns, gripping my forearm. “He might not be safe right now.”
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Gabriel snaps, shoving himself upright and stumbling toward us. “Why are you even here, you pop star-looking ass? This is our home. You think because I left for a few weeks you can just slide in and take my place?”
Paolo releases me immediately as Gabriel closes the distance.
I step in front of him, pressing my palms against his chest to stop him from lunging any farther. He reeks of stale alcohol and the suspicious smell of vomit, making my stomach twist.
“She’s mine,” Gabriel growls, pointing at the door. “Now get out.”
Paolo doesn’t react to Gabriel’s demand as he looks at me instead. “What do you want me to do? I can stay and make sure he doesn’t hurt you, or I can leave.”
“Hurt her?” Gabriel bellows, offended.
“Shh,” I murmur to Gabriel before glancing back at Paolo. “Thank you for bringing me. Let’s reschedule the painting session for tomorrow afternoon. I think I should stay and take care of him.”
Disappointment flashes across Paolo’s face, but he nods as he backs out of the apartment. “Call me if you need anything,” he says before stepping into the elevator.
The doors slide shut and silence settles over the apartment. Gabriel stares at the doorway like Paolo might reappear, but when his eyes finally meet mine, something inside him breaks.
“I’m really sorry,” he slurs, swaying slightly.
“No,” I say gently. “You’re really drunk.”
I turn him toward the bedroom, guiding him carefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He stops in the bathroom doorway, gripping the frame for balance.
“Your brother was right,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I ruined your life. I ran. Again. I’m so selfish. I’m so—”
“Save it,” I cut in quietly, turning on the shower. “You’re not forgiven yet.”
He falls silent while I help him out of his clothes and steady him under the spray. When he wobbles dangerously, I strip down to my underwear and step in with him, afraid he’ll slip and crack his head open.
He closes his eyes while I carefully wash his hair, his shoulders, his chest, and the rest of his body. When I’m done, I step out first, wrap myself in a towel, then grab one for him and help dry him off.
“Come on,” I whisper.
I guide him back to the bedroom and sit him on the edge of the bed.
When I open the closet to check if his clothes from the hotel are in there yet, I freeze. The dresses from Positano are hanging neatly inside, along with a dozen other pieces I don’t remember choosing.
Across from them are his clothes. I swallow hard, grab one of his T-shirts, boxers, and sweatpants, and return to the bed. I dress him slowly, then tuck him under the covers.
“Go to sleep,” I murmur.
He watches me through heavy lids. “Will you sleep next to me?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly undoes me, but I stay strong and gently pull my hand from his grip.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He looks disappointed, but he doesn’t argue, and within minutes he’s snoring softly. I bring him a glass of water and set it on the nightstand with a couple of painkillers that I grabbed from my suitcase. Then I move the bathroom trash can next to his side of the bed, just in case.
Only when I’m sure he’s settled do I grab a pillow and spare blanket before walking to the couch.
I’m so relieved that he came back, but I’m also so tired of being left behind.
I waited three weeks, sick with worry, when I could have been enjoying Italy, focusing on myself—the whole reason I came here in the first place.
I don’t know if I can trust whatever he has to say in the morning, and I don’t know if apologies are enough anymore, but I owe him the chance to speak after dropping this bombshell on him, even if it breaks me all over again.
* “Mi scusi, signore, è occupato?” = Excuse me, sir, are you busy?
* “Come posso aiutarti?” = How may I help you?
* “Mio Dio” = My God