Chapter Five
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
“Signora Moretti, your espresso.”
I looked up to see Francesca, my self-proclaimed barista and one of the best seamstresses to ever exist. Her dark skin was smooth and radiant under the boutique’s golden lighting, and as always, her Fulani braids framed her face and fell over her shoulder with grace.
“Grazie,” I murmured, accepting the cup.
The rich aroma of espresso curled into the air as I glanced around Il Vento Elegante, my boutique, my dream made real.
Bolts of the finest silk and tulle lined the walls, their luxurious textures catching the light in soft waves.
Mannequins draped in unfinished masterpieces stood like silent muses, while peonies—soft, fragrant, ever-present—added delicate beauty to the controlled chaos.
I took a sip, the bitterness grounding me as reality spun around me like a whirlwind.
A week.
In one week, I’ll be hosting my first fashion show. Years of sweat, years of being overlooked, and years of proving I belonged in a world that didn’t always make room for women like me.
The boutique hummed with energy. Seamstresses fussed over last-minute adjustments, models practiced their walks, and I oversaw every detail with meticulous care. There was no room for error.
The door chimed.
I glanced up, and there she was. A striking beauty in a flowing red abaya, her hijab wrapped neatly around her face, tablet in hand, eyes sharp with purpose. Inaya Abbas. My best friend and ever-efficient assistant.
“Nina, we need to go over the guest list for the show,” she announced, her eyes scanning the room before settling on me. “As well as this came from Dillon and Mara.”
I looked at the envelope and was pleasantly surprised to find a check for five hundred thousand euros inside, along with a note apologizing for their absence. I understood their commitments with Dillon running a vast empire of his own and Mara expecting her first child.
I nodded, setting my cup down. “Of course, let’s do it, and I will call my cousins later, Aya.”
We moved to the back office, a blend of workshop and refuge, with bolts of fabric stacked high and sketches everywhere. Inaya sat, placing the iPad between us and scrolling through the list of names.
“We have confirmations from several key figures in the fashion industry, some celebrities, and quite a few high-profile clients,” she began, her voice brisk and businesslike.
My eyes skimmed the list, noting all the attendees until they landed on it.
Ronan Romano.
The letters blurred as memories surged, unbidden and unwelcome. Five years had passed, but the pain of his name still struck like a dagger.
The man who had been my world, my muse, and ultimately, my heartbreak. Our relationship had ended in a maelstrom of betrayal and shattered dreams, and I had buried those memories deep, or so I thought.
I saw his name everywhere.
The name he made for himself was quite impressive.
I remembered everything, and my anger grew because none of it fucking mattered.
He ruined me, ruined us. No matter what he was going through, I was there.
I wiped his tears and consoled him. I put my whole life on hold to take care of him, and he gave up on me.
He gave up on us, and I would never be the same again.
I hated him.
“Nina?” Inaya’s voice brought me back to the present.
I cleared my throat, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Can we remove a name from the list?”
She raised an eyebrow. “What name?”
My voice was barely a whisper. “Ronan Romano.”
She frowned, glancing back at the tablet. “That would be a tremendous loss, habibi.”
I looked at her, the curiosity and concern in her eyes mingling. “Tremendous loss? How?”
She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “He paid five hundred thousand euros for his seat, which is about ten times the cost of a single ticket, and donated an additional two million euros to the show.”
The room seemed to tilt, and I gripped the edge of the table for support.
Two million euros? It was an astronomical amount, enough to ensure the show’s success and secure my brand’s future.
But at what cost?
Why now?
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Inaya nodded. “I double-checked the figures myself. His donation is the largest we’ve received.”
Why was Ronan doing this?
What did he want?
I had worked so hard to distance myself from the past, to build a new life and a new identity, and now it seemed he was determined to be part of it once more.
Moreover, I hated that I couldn’t forget him.
I still remember the night it all fell apart.
Ronan had promised me the world, and I, foolishly in love, had believed him.
We were supposed to move to New York together, to start a life filled with art, fashion, and medicine.
I had spent weeks preparing for our future, envisioning a romantic adventure where we would conquer the fashion world side by side.
But then it all fell apart, and I left behind my na?ve belief that love alone could conquer all.
I closed my eyes, trying to push back the tidal wave of bitterness and hurt that still lingered. It was maddening how, after all these years, his name could still reduce me to this raw, vulnerable state.
“Nina, are you okay?” Her voice was soft, her hand resting lightly on my arm.
I took a deep breath, forcing a smile. “I’m surprised.”
She nodded, though her eyes remained skeptical. “If you want, I can handle all the communications with him. You don’t have to see or talk to him if you don’t want to.”
I appreciated her offer, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. If Ronan was coming to my show, to Italy, our paths would inevitably cross. I had to be prepared, not only to face him, but to face the wounds that had never fully healed.
“Let’s keep him on the list,” I replied finally, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “But please, handle all the arrangements regarding his attendance.”
“Of course. I’ll take care of everything.”
Inaya left the office, and my thoughts spiraled into a chaotic whirl. The past I had tried so hard to forget was now hurtling back into my life with the force of a freight train.
But I was no longer the naive girl who had fallen for Ronan Romano. I was stronger, wiser, and ready to face whatever came next.
I glanced around the office, my gaze landing on a sketch I had pinned to the wall—a design inspired by dreams of love and hope. It was time to reclaim those dreams, to show the world I was a force to be reckoned with.
The day passed in a haze with Ronan inevitably on my mind.
I’d always thought of him, but from a distance.
Sometimes, when I looked at my peonies or ate gelato, memories of us flooded back—our good times, our happiness. But I longed for a time when I could remember him without remembering the pain.
I couldn’t look at another man without searching for Ronan in him—the blue-gray eyes, that annoyingly perfect face. But then came the heartbreak, and thinking about it broke me all over again.
I exhaled, grounding myself in the present.
Beside me sat Nicoletta Moretti, my mother in every sense that mattered.
Technically, I was adopted; my birth mother—Nicoletta’s best friend—died giving birth to me, and Nicoletta had taken me in, raising me as her own.
She was my mother, my backbone, my strength, and the woman who shaped who I am.
I carried her resilience, charm, work ethic, and compassion. She had raised me without a father, but her strength as a mother was enough for both roles. She had built me a life on love alone, and that was more than any child could ask for.
“What are you thinking about, la mia bellissima figlia?5” she asked as I settled across from her on the cozy red sofa.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “How are you, Mamma?”
“You’re not fine. That vein on your forehead gives it away. Cosa c’è che non va?6” She pressed, concern etched on her face.
I sighed and then let out a small laugh. “The fashion show has me a tad anxious, and look at you, perfecting your English.”
She rolled her eyes and lightly smacked my thigh. “My Papà was British, and my Mamma was Italian. I can speak English; I choose not to. Your show will be great. I’ve seen your beautiful sketches and gowns.”
I shrugged. “I hope so.”
She studied my expression intently. “This isn’t only anxiety for the show. What else is bothering you, mia cara?7”
I cleared my throat, reaching for the bottle of water beside me. “Mamma, it’s just the show,” I lied, avoiding any mention of Ronan’s name.
“Se lo dici tu,8” she muttered, “How are the preparations going?”
I told her about my sketches, the designs, the models, and the venue—every detail leading up to the big moment. As I spoke, I couldn’t miss the pride in her eyes or the happiness radiating from her.
“I’m proud of you, Nina. You’ve built a name for yourself—everywhere I go, I hear it. Despite everything you’ve endured, you’ve become an incredible woman.”
My eyes watered at her words. “Graize, Mamma.” Listening to her stirred memories of our life in Italy.
The cramped flat, the relentless struggle mixed with survival instincts, and the way she went without so I could have a little more.
She never let me see her cry, always wearing a brave face, even in our hardest moments.
I remembered the nights we huddled together for warmth, her soft voice spinning stories to chase away my worries.
Her strength shaped me, and I would never forget that.
As our conversation came to an end, we exchanged warm goodbyes. I held her tight, soaking in the steady warmth that had carried us through so much. Then, with my heart a little fuller, I returned to my flat, where Inaya was already waiting.
Walking through the door, she greeted me with a smile. “How was seeing your mom?”
I smiled back, feeling a mix of emotions. “It was good. We talked about the show and everything. She’s so proud.”
“Of course she is,” she replied, her eyes full of support and understanding. “You’re doing amazing things, Nina.”
“We’re doing great things,” I corrected, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I remember meeting her as if it were yesterday. Though she was initially from Turkey, her parents had moved to the city when she was accepted into fashion school here. From that moment on, we’ve been inseparable.
“So,” she began, her tone gentle but probing, “what are you going to do about Ronan?”
I sighed, leaning back into the sofa. “What can I do? He paid a generous sum for his ticket.”
She nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I get that. But do you think you two can truly be in the same space and nothing happens?”
I exhaled as I had the same thought.
I shrugged, feeling a mix of emotions. “It’s overwhelming to think about him.”
“You’re stronger than you realize, Nina,” Inaya said softly. “Remember, I’m here for you, no matter what.”
I smiled, grateful for her. “Thank you. You’ve always been my rock.”
She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I have to ask, though, do you still love him?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “And honestly, I don’t want to think of it.”
With that said, I sat in silence with her for the rest of the night. Any amount of silence was better than talking about Ronan.