Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
LUCY
Late afternoon sun slips through the blackout shades in neat stripes, falling across my bed like an accusation.
I've slept away half the day, but my body still shows the marks of last night.
My skin remembers everywhere Alessio touched me.
My thighs ache; my lips are raw and swollen, and when I touch them, I relive the hunger of his mouth—shame and afterglow battle inside me, neither one winning.
I lie there for a long time, wondering which feeling will fade and which will haunt me.
I shower until the water turns cold, scrubbing away every trace of last night, but he lingers in the way my pulse beats between my legs, in the flinching startle of my own reflection as I pass the mirror.
I half expect to see his handprint outlined on my neck, a purple echo blossoming under the skin.
Instead, there’s just me. Small-boned, messy-haired, blue-eyed like my father.
I wrap myself in a towel and stare at my phone, still on the vanity.
No new messages. Alessio kept his word and let me walk away.
I block his number anyway.
I catch myself typing his name into the search bar again, hoping the internet might show me a different Alessio Morrone—someone who runs charities or breeds show dogs, anything but what I already know.
There are enough stories about the Morrones to fill a dozen Netflix seasons: family photos in old suits, grainy security footage of men on courthouse steps, even blurrier shots of men dragged out of nightclubs.
Sometimes, Alessio’s face appears—a pale ghost behind his father or uncle, another man who expects the world to move for him.
But last night, he was anything but a ghost. He was alive, and every part of him proved it.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the counter, wishing I could do the same with my thoughts.
After a day spent in bed, waiting for the consequences of my choices to catch up with me, my mother calls the next morning and asks to take me to lunch at The Stanhope.
She says it’s just a check-in, but Deidre Stuyvesant never does anything casually.
I’m sure she made the reservation months ago—my late "birthday brunch" scheduled between a foundation meeting and one of her support groups at NYU Langone Hospital. She’s always on time, sitting in her favorite booth, her blond hair perfectly styled. Her eyebrows rise as I walk up.
“You’re late,” she says, with the gentle cruelty only mothers possess.
I slide in across from her and lay my napkin over my lap, conscious of the faintest tenderness when my thighs brush together. “Only by ten minutes.”
“In Manhattan,” she says, surveying the room over her teacup, “ten minutes is generational. Civilizations have collapsed in less time.”
She’s in a mood, and I brace myself for her questions. The waiter pours sparkling water as she studies my face. I know she sees the dark circles, the stubborn flush on my cheeks, and the slight tremor in my hands. Even after years in fundraising and politics, she still can’t hide her concern.
“Did you have a pleasant birthday?” she asks, voice light but eyes sharp.
I blink. “What is that supposed to mean?” I’m embarrassed by the spike of panic in my own voice. “What did you hear?”
She tilts her head, a jeweler appraising a stone for flaws. “I only asked. Did Paul treat you well?”
Paul. Paul Richmond. I met him only once at a charity auction my mother took me to.
He stood in the corner with other recent law school graduates, all of them uncomfortable in stiff new suits.
I barely remember him—just his mustard yellow argyle socks showing between his short pants and worn loafers as he shifted from foot to foot during our brief introduction.
I shake my head. “He didn’t show, which was fine, honestly. I think he forgot.”
She clicks her tongue, arranges her silverware with surgical precision. “Men these days are all cowards. His mother will be ashamed. Did you stay long at the restaurant?”
I focus very hard on pouring more water into my glass. “Not really. I left early. Came home and fell asleep.”
There’s a quick look in her eyes—maybe relief, maybe suspicion—but she moves on.
“You don’t need Paul. There are plenty of people who would love to date you, if you’d let them.
” She leans in, lowering her voice. “I saw Gregory Waters last Tuesday at the Hedrick’s fundraiser.
He’s grown up well. He’s with Morris Finch now, already a full partner at thirty.
His father says he’s never seen Gregory so focused. ”
I watch the condensation slide down the side of my glass. “He’s nice, but I don’t think—”
My mother interrupts me. “You don’t need to think.
You need to try. The last thing you want is to wake up and realize you’re the only unmarried girl in your year, drifting from job to job, pet-sitting for friends, and shopping alone in the afternoon.
” She sips her tea and gives me a serious look.
“I’ll set up a coffee for you two. Just coffee, neutral ground. You can text me if it gets boring.”
“Sure,” I say, surprised by how relieved I am. Anything to interrupt the loop of memory, the ghost of Alessio’s voice licking the inside of my skull. “Fine. Coffee’s safe.”
She smiles, pleased that I’ve agreed, and starts talking about the art installation her board is sponsoring in Chelsea.
“They want to hang four thousand hand-blown glass marbles from the ceiling, each filled with a different pigment and left to age in the sunlight. It’ll be a disaster, but at least they’ll remember our name for years.
” When the salad arrives, she eats with small, careful movements, never getting vinaigrette on her hands.
I try to copy her, arranging my lettuce neatly and eating each piece carefully. But my teeth ache with need and the memory of being bitten. When my fork hits my teeth, I wince as pain shoots through me. I drink more water to distract myself.
“Is work going alright?” she asks. “Still playing dress-up for the socialites?”
I laugh, but it comes out more like a cough. “If chasing unpaid invoices and asking heiresses not to wear white to other people’s weddings counts as work, then yes. It’s a joy.”
Mother wipes her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “You’ll outgrow this phase soon enough. Then you’ll want something real.”
I want to tell her that what I want is more than real, that it’s raw and messy and beautiful, but I nod and watch the droplets gather at the base of her glass, colored by the sunlight.
It takes me half a subway ride and a brisk walk through the East Village to shake off the lunch—the taste of motherly censure still clinging to my tongue—and by the time I reach the studio, I’m in a mood.
The door buzzes me in, and Vittoria is already perched behind the cutting table, surrounded by a fortress of muslin-swathed mannequins and pattern pieces.
She looks up, one brow cocked, razor blade held between her teeth like a pirate.
“Damn, Lucinda. Looking fresh,” she calls, voice spiked with sarcasm.
I drop my backpack on the floor, shucking off my coat and scarf. “Don’t judge. I survived brunch with my mother.”
Vittoria spits the blade into her palm. “You poor thing. Sit. I’ll get you caffeine and lies.” She gestures to the stool, where she’s laid out a foam cup and a set of new pens.
We’ve agreed never to talk about our families except as if they’re TV characters or cautionary tales. But she knows what I need: strong coffee and quiet support, broken only by the sound of the sewing machine.
We get to work, losing hours to needles, sketches, and color-matching.
I work through my wedding board, looking at runway shows and tracing silhouettes, piecing together a mix of tulle and seed beads.
Every so often, I remember how Alessio pulled apart my dress, the careful way he revealed my skin, the way he called me Lucia, and how my body responded to him.
Fuck.
I erase a line so hard the page tears. Vittoria glances over. “You good?”
I bite my lip. “No. Yes. Just…” I wave my pencil. “I made a mess Saturday night.”
She grins, sharp. “Did you finally let Paul Richmond inside? Please tell me it was terrible, for the sake of the narrative.”
I want to laugh, but I shake my head. “It wasn’t Paul. It was someone else. Just a one-night thing.” The words feel wrong, but the truth is even harder.
Vittoria’s eyes go wide. “Was it the meatpacking guy with the nose ring? Please. I need details. Don’t hold back.”
I look down at my sketchbook, tracing a sleeve to avoid her eyes. “It was just some guy at Basilio’s. No one special.”
Her mouth opens as if to probe, but something in my voice makes her close it. “Well, did he at least make you come?”
For a moment, I say nothing; then, “He broke the scale.”
“You’re blushing,” she accuses, delighted.
I am. I can’t help it. It’s not just the memory, but the certainty that if I called him, he would come back and do it all again. That’s what scares me—the way I want his intense attention.
I pretend to focus on the lace samples, but after a while, I notice I’m drawing his eyes in the margin. I close the sketchbook quickly.
“Can we please work on something else today?” I ask, voice too chipper even for me. “I’m going to drown if I look at any more wedding gowns.”
Vittoria grins but thankfully changes the subject, showing me her mood board for a Hepburn-inspired eveningwear collection.
We spend two hours debating fabrics, hems, and whether tulle looks elegant or childish.
It helps. The work feels real, and the world comes back—thread, grit, graphite, coffee.
Sometimes, this city feels like a miracle.
Other times, it just wears people like me down.
At six o’clock, I pack away my things, promise to see Vittoria bright and early, and trudge to the subway, aware of every tiny ache and pulse in my body as I descend the stairs.
I sleep badly. My dreams are full of hands—sometimes Alessio’s, sometimes a stranger’s, long and pale, reaching for me in a hallway that seems endless. I wake up at three, sweating despite the November cold, and stare at the ceiling.
If I close my eyes, I can still taste him.
I fight the urge to undress and touch myself, because I know it wouldn’t be for me anymore. It would be for him. Instead, I drift back into a light sleep until the alarm goes off at six-thirty.
Somehow, I manage to be annoyed with myself and him and the universe, all at once.
After work, Gregory Waters is waiting for me at the La Colombe on Lafayette, right at the edge of SoHo.
He’s even more wholesome than I remember—clean white shirt, blue tie with discreet skulls embroidered on the lining, dark hair swept back like he’s been engineered for a J.Crew catalog.
He stands as I approach, and for one paralyzing second, I flash to Alessio pinning me to the elevator wall. I nearly lose it right then.
“Lucy!” he says, genuinely. “You look fantastic.” He offers a handshake, then aborts it for an awkward hug that shudders briefly against my shoulder and ribs. His arms smell like fabric softener and some generic, inoffensive men’s cologne. I pull back and try to reset my mouth into a smile.
“Gregory, hi,” I say. “It’s so good to meet you.”
He ducks his head, gesturing toward the corner table, already holding two cappuccinos in to-go cups, a small graveyard of sugar packets and stirring sticks between them.
He’s stacked napkins in a neat fan, and there’s a glossy, obviously new copy of The Economist peeking out from under his phone.
I sit, careful with my coat, and smooth my skirt.
“I got here early,” he says, after a beat. “Habit. My dad always said, " Ten minutes early is on time.” He laughs, a little sharp, a little forced.
I look at my hands, the bones showing blue under the café’s harsh lights, my fingernails still marked by his grip.
My skin feels too thin, as if it’s hiding something.
I can’t stop thinking that Alessio might walk in, see me with this harmless man, and change everything.
The thought is overwhelming—his dark suit at the door, his eyes meeting mine, and the silence that would follow.
Even as Gregory talks about his father’s punctuality, I feel a prickling at the back of my neck, every hair standing up.
The café noise fades, replaced by the sound of my own heartbeat.
My skin tightens across my shoulders, an old instinct warning me.
I know, without looking, that somewhere outside, Alessio is watching me, his eyes fixed on me through the glass.
I know he’s near.