Chapter 51
FIFTY-ONE
VALENTINA FERRARA
I knew exactly what I was doing.
Every inch of the dress I chose, the carefully applied lipstick, every deliberate drop of perfume placed at my neck—none of it was accidental. And it wasn’t meant to provoke Enrico, no matter what he might think.
It was meant to remind me that I still existed beyond him.
Fabrício had texted me hours earlier:
I’m in town. Dinner?
He had always been kind. Easy. Light. A dear friend who had been very present in my life when I first arrived in Tiradentes—someone who had never crossed a single line with me.
He moved away only six months after I arrived, but we kept in touch. Our conversations were always pleasant, uncomplicated, effortless.
And that was exactly what I needed.
Someone who didn’t look at me with the shadow of the past reflected in his eyes.
When I finished getting ready, I stopped in front of the mirror and took a deep breath.
For the first time in a long while, I felt beautiful. Truly beautiful. Beautiful as a woman who did not define herself by the presence—or absence—of Enrico Ferrara in her life.
Clara had left early, excited to sleep over at Júlia’s. And without her, that house fell silent. Empty. Perfect for leaving and forgetting—even if only for a few hours.
I went downstairs, my heels echoing firmly against the cold marble.
And because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, the very moment my feet touched the living room floor, I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
Enrico walked in.
His jacket was half open, his tie loose around his neck, his hair messy—as if he’d spent the entire day fighting some invisible fire only he could see.
Our eyes met instantly.
He didn’t ask anything.
But he looked.
Oh, how he looked.
His gaze traveled down my body slowly, like hot oil running down my spine, burning every inch it touched. I held my breath involuntarily, my heart accelerating in a way that irritated me.
I exhaled sharply, forcing the moment into words.
“Clara’s sleeping at Júlia’s,” I said simply, in case he’d forgotten.
He nodded—just a brief, almost imperceptible movement—but his eyes stayed on me, analyzing me in that unbearable, heavy silence.
I took another deep breath.
“I’m not having dinner at home tonight.”
His jaw tightened immediately. A small, almost invisible tremor. But I saw it.
“Good night, Enrico,” I added, already impatient with his silence.
Nothing.
Not a word in response.
Just that unbearable look that seemed to want to lock every door in the house and make me forget any path that didn’t end in his bed.
“Enrico?” I pressed, sharper now.
Finally, he lifted his eyes to meet mine directly—and I almost stepped back at the intensity I found there.
“Good night,” he replied at last, his teeth clenched, his voice hard as stone.
That was it.
No other words. No provocation. No Who are you going with? or You’re going out dressed like that?
I turned my back slowly, every muscle in my body tense, alert—waiting for a reaction.
None came.
No protest. No question. No attempt to stop me.
And that was the moment I realized something terrible:
The part of me that had dressed so carefully for that dinner was furious that he hadn’t reacted at all—and had been lying shamelessly when I told myself I had done it for me.
I walked out the front door like a free, independent woman, in control of her own choices.
But I also walked out carrying a dull, inexplicable anger lodged deep in my stomach, refusing to leave.
Why hadn’t he tried to stop me?
Why did a part of me still want him to try?
Why had I expected to be questioned, challenged, provoked?
And worse—
Why had his silence hurt infinitely more than any shout ever could?
I barely registered the drive to the restaurant. My heart and head were so full I hardly noticed the road. I startled at the realization that I had driven there myself—it felt as if I’d been teleported.
Fabrício had chosen a table by the window. The restaurant was elegant, warm, softly lit—the kind of place that usually made me relax, forget life for a while.
But nothing felt normal that night. Nothing was in the right place—especially my heart.
Fabrício looked exactly as I remembered: elegant, kind, with that easy smile that drew attention without effort. The kind of man my friends would call a catch.
And there I was, sitting across from him, my heart racing since I’d left home—but not because of his smile.
“You look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you,” he said after we exchanged greetings, his gaze sincere and warm.
I smiled awkwardly, nervously adjusting the strap of my dress.
“And you still know exactly how to compliment someone.”
The waiter brought water, menus. I pretended to study the options, but my stomach made it very clear it wouldn’t accept food tonight.
“I have to admit, I was surprised when I heard you were… married,” Fabrício said after a moment, watching me carefully.
“Yeah… it’s complicated,” I murmured, shrugging in a failed attempt at casualness.
“I figured,” he replied with a brief, humorless laugh. Then he leaned back, his expression serious. “Truth is, Val… when I decided to come to Tiradentes, it wasn’t just to see an old friend. I hoped maybe… I could try something more with you.”
The air thickened instantly.
My throat went dry.
I stared at him, stunned, his words echoing inside my chest like a blow I hadn’t seen coming.
Romantic.
His intention was romantic.
And in one terrifying second, everything inside me screamed no.
Not because Fabrício was wrong, inappropriate, or poorly timed.
But because he didn’t matter.
He wasn’t right for me.
And that realization sent me into absolute panic.
I apologized quickly, inventing a sudden headache. Fabrício, kind and respectful as ever, stood immediately and offered to drive me home. I refused with a weak smile. I needed to drive. Needed air. Space.
Distance.
And, above all, I needed to run from myself.
I’d been driving for less than five minutes when a sudden pop shook the car—and my heart with it.
I pulled over carefully, stepped out, my movements unsteady.
The tire was completely flat. Dead. Gone.
I closed my eyes and took a slow breath.
Of course.
Of course the night could still get worse.
Before I could look up at the sky and ask God why He was punishing me, the light appeared.
Literally.
Strong, blinding headlights stopped behind my car, illuminating the dark road like a silent predator cornering its prey.
My heart dropped straight into my chest.
I knew that car.
I knew that license plate.
And most of all, I knew that confident, arrogant posture of the man stepping out and walking toward me like the road belonged to him.
Enrico.