Chapter Three
NINA
Three Years Earlier
ITALY
The bench was cold beneath me, the wood digging into my shoulders as I leaned back, nursing the flask of scotch hidden in my jacket.
March seventeenth—Ronan’s birthday. His thirtieth birthday.
Every year, like some twisted ritual, I ended up in this corner of the park, letting the chill of middle March dig deep with the only warmth coming from the burn of scotch pooling in my chest.
I hated him for it—for this pull he still had, for the years that had gone by without easing any of it.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t know why he left.
Knowing why didn’t change anything, though.
It was like holding onto puzzle pieces that would never fit together, no matter how many times I rearranged them in my mind.
He’d walked out, but somehow, part of me had stayed right there, stuck in the moment, waiting for him to turn around and undo everything he’d set in motion.
I took a long sip, savoring the heat spreading through me, dulling the edges of the memories I couldn’t seem to shake.
Why did I even care? Why did I still come back to him, letting him haunt me?
I’d built a life for myself (or at least tried to), success I’d fought tooth and nail for, a name in fashion—no matter how small it may seem—which I earned with my own hands.
If anyone had told me I’d be making designs for people I’d once watched on TV, I would’ve laughed.
But I’d made it happen, like I’d once told him I would… like he said I would.
I missed the way he fiercely believed in me, like it was a given I’d become anything I set my heart to, even when I couldn’t see it myself.
We grew up in two different worlds—his overflowing with choices and privilege, mine more like a game of survival—but somehow, the times I got to really live were with him.
Those memories lingered like worn pages, each one laced with his voice, calling me tesoro and the way he’d insist on bringing me to New York, taunting me with “ice cream” every chance he got, knowing I’d wrinkle my nose and grumble about how it’s to be called gelato.
He’d laugh at my scrunched face, but then his smile would soften, and he’d reach for my hand, brushing a kiss over my scars as if to tell me he saw them, but they weren’t what he saw.
He let me live in any dream I wanted, and for a time, I thought it was enough.
I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d stay there, held between his world and mine, where for once, the weight wasn’t crushing, and I could breathe, live.
But now those moments felt almost fragile, like they belonged to someone else’s story.
And yet… part of me will always be back there, reaching for him in the dreams he once let me call mine.
Success, as expected, has knocked on his door too. Despite my better judgment, I pulled out my phone and typed his name into the search bar, holding my breath as I hit enter. The usual results filled the screen: Dr. Ronan Romano, cancer specialist-in-training, billionaire, businessman.
I stared at the screen, thumb frozen as I skimmed over the latest article.
There he was again, standing on a Jamaican white sand beach, laughing with his friends.
All of them were there—the men the tabloids hailed as the richest and most powerful in New York City: my cousin Dillon Xander, Arnoldo Reyes, Mikkel Suarez, Lucio Romano (Ronan’s twin), and Alexander Williams—all gathered under a tropical sky, looking relaxed and sunlit, with not a single woman in sight.
I let out a breath, feeling a faint, ridiculous flicker of relief.
It wasn’t that I wanted him back, but the thought of him moving on and finding someone else was a twist in my chest I wasn’t ready for.
I hated him. But, even now, I found myself here, clinging to his memory like it was something fragile I couldn’t afford to lose.
“Happy birthday, Ronan,” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper against the wind.
It was ridiculous to be here, sitting alone, celebrating someone who didn’t remember half the things I couldn’t forget.
But I couldn’t seem to let it go. I wanted to throw my phone in the lake and erase every trace of him from my mind, but I knew better.
Some part of me was still back there, holding onto pieces of a story that had ended years ago.
I took another sip, feeling the scotch warm me, wishing for once it could reach the parts of me that stayed cold and stubborn, like the ice still clinging to the lake.
I told myself this would be the last time…
That this March seventeenth would finally be the one where I’d stop coming back.
But I knew, deep down, I’d probably find myself here again next year as I did every year, wondering why, no matter how much I tried, I’d never really let him go.