Chapter Thirteen
NINA
Presemt Day
ITALY
The days after my debut fashion show came quickly, and success would be an understatement.
Every magazine feature showcasing my designs felt like another dream realized.
Vogue was planning a behind-the-scenes feature on the making of the gowns, which—let’s be real—was a dream come true for any designer.
Eighteen-year-old Nina would be proud of twenty-nine-year-old Nina.
There was no shortage of praise, of accolades, of messages from people who’d never noticed me before. But despite all the external validation, I felt adrift. Like I was floating above it all, too detached to fully grasp the magnitude of what was happening around me.
And then, he showed up.
Ronan.
Right when I thought I was finally finding my stride, his unexpected appearance had shaken me to the core.
When I heard him speak again, memories flooded back so fast and so forcefully that it felt as though no time had passed at all. The familiar weight of his voice. The way it stirred something deep inside of me, something I thought I’d buried.
“I hate you,” I had told him, the words heavy with resentment. But as I replayed our encounter in my mind, I realized that hate was too simple a word.
I told him I didn’t care. I told him everything he said wouldn’t change what he’d done, what he’d left me with. But the words still looped in my head, hollowing me out from the inside.
Christmas eight years ago. The dress.
As if he’d ever cared enough to remember, to hold on to a single moment the way I had.
But, the way he looked at me… those eyes filled with a desperation I wanted to believe wasn’t real.
He’d said he’d wait as long as it took, and the worst part—the part that tore at me now—was that I knew he would.
It was easy for him. Waiting was simple.
“I remember everything,” he’d said.
God, why did he have to say that? Why did he have to dredge up a memory I’d buried so deeply, a night I’d once thought was the start of something magical, something lasting? The way I’d lit up when I saw the model in my design… I believed him then. Believed that he saw me, really saw me.
After all, he did that night. He made my dreams come true, even if for a moment. Even if it was only for us to see.
But then he left, and that belief shattered.
I tightened my grip on the edge of the fabric, the same dress I clung to that night when I thought my dreams were just beginning. I let myself feel like it mattered. And he knew it, knew how much I’d poured into that design, into him, only to be left picking up the remains alone.
You know it’s never been about the money.
The thing was, I did know. He had plenty of it, enough to last a lifetime, and that terrified me because even after everything, some foolish part of me still wanted to believe him.
I wanted to think he could be the man I’d once dreamed he was, but I couldn’t let myself fall for words that felt as hollow as the echoes in my heart.
He doesn’t get to walk back into the light because he finally decided he missed it.
Somewhere beneath the resentment and anger… I hated that there was a whisper in me, soft but steady, hoping he’d actually stay.
Could I even trust my own emotions after so long?
His question lingered like a specter in my thoughts: “Is there really no hope?”
The truth was, I didn’t know. What could cause more hope?
We were tucked away in a hidden corner of Parco Sempione, the sun filtering through the trees in patches of gold dancing across Ronan’s face.
He pulled me down onto a soft patch of grass, away from the crowded paths, claiming it as ‘ours’ with that playful grin of his.
I could hear the faint hum of city noise around us, but it felt distant, like we’d slipped into our own world for a little while.
He reached into his bag and handed me a worn notebook, its cover creased and edges frayed. His gaze was tender, and it made my chest ache.
I flipped open the cover, and my breath hitched.
Page after page was filled with notes and sketches about me.
Tiny, fleeting details I barely remembered but he’d somehow captured perfectly.
My clumsy attempts at cooking, the way my nose crinkled when I laughed too hard, even the half-baked dream I had of designing a house overlooking the ocean.
Every line, every smudge of ink felt like a piece of me he’d preserved.
“You kept this?” I whispered, hardly believing it.
He only nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “I’ve been writing things down since the day we met, Nina. I wanted to remember everything about you.” He paused, his hand coming to rest over mine on the notebook. “This is my way of keeping you close when I’m in the city, and you’re here.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak, and I let his words settle over me.
I knew Ronan loved me, but this… this was a devotion I hadn’t fully understood until then.
When he leaned in, pressing his lips softly to my forehead, the world seemed to fall away.
It was only us, and I could almost believe we’d stay like that forever.
I stood in my studio, surrounded by sketches and fabric swatches, the remnants of creativity that had propelled me to this point.
Inaya bustled beside me, her voice a constant hum of organization and efficiency. “Nina, Vogue Italia called again. They want to finalize the shoot details for next week.”
I nodded absentmindedly, my thoughts consumed by memories that had resurfaced like ghosts from the past.
“Inaya,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper, “Next month.”
Inaya’s eyes widened in surprise. “Isn’t that a bit far?”
I shook my head, a lump forming in my throat. “Is it?”
She studied me intently, her expression softening with understanding. “Is everything okay?”
I hesitated, torn between the urge to confide in her and the instinct to protect myself from the vulnerability threatening to engulf me. “It’s complicated, Inaya. But I…need some time.”
She nodded slowly, her gaze shadowed with concern. “So you saw him afterward?”
I swallowed, the words dragging over jagged edges. “Before, during, and after.”
She exhaled. “Now that he’s here, right in front of you… How does it make you feel?”
I forced a laugh, brittle and hollow, my fingers pressing into my temple as if I could massage out the ache. “I don’t even know. Angry? Confused? It was hard enough seeing him at a distance, but being face-to-face again… It’s like reopening a wound that barely healed.”
I nodded, feeling raw, the energy drained from me like a wilted leaf. “Can we talk later? Right now… I need to be alone.”
Her hand found my shoulder, grounding me with its warmth. “Of course. Call me anytime, okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice was a whisper, the word crumbling like an exhausted sigh.
She left the room, and I sank into a chair, the strain of my emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. Success had never felt so hollow. The anguish in my chest was a continuous reminder of the void Ronan had left behind.
Was I capable of forgiveness?
Could I allow myself to believe in second chances?
The boutique grew quiet, and I wrestled with the tangled emotions threatening to consume me.
I always loved nature. Whenever we needed to reflect or had a rough day, my mother and I would always find peace by the water or in a small garden.
The chaos of the past weeks left me craving quiet, so I found it at a gelato stand under an oak tree. I ordered coconut gelato, savoring its creamy richness as I sat on a nearby bench.
Pulling out my phone, I scrolled through my contacts until I found Dillon’s number. Hesitating only briefly, I pressed the call button and brought the phone to my ear.
After a few rings, Dillon’s deep voice greeted me. “Nina! How was your show? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Dillon. It was great. Thank you and Mara so much for the donation and the card. I appreciate it,” I started. “Can we talk?”
“Of course. I will be at the next show,” he replied, his tone serious now. “Is all well?”
Taking a deep breath, I recounted the events since the fashion show—the success, the Vogue shoot, and Ronan’s unexpected appearance. “Ronan was at my show.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, as if Dillon was processing my words.
“I see,” he said finally, but knowingly. “How are you feeling about that?”
I sighed, swirling my gelato absentmindedly with the small plastic spoon. “Conflicted, mostly. Seeing him brought back so much… confusion. I thought I had moved on, but…”
“But some things never really go away,” he finished gently.
“Yeah,” I admitted softly. “I keep replaying his words in my head.
Siamo finiti? Non c’è davvero più speranza?18
Dillon was quiet for a moment before responding.
“He’s never stopped caring about you, and I’m not taking sides here.
I understand heartbreak, believe me. But for a moment, consider his perspective.
His entire world collapsed in front of him—he lost his parents, his sister, and his grandparents, all within two years.
Yes, he hurt you, and you didn’t deserve that.
He’s aware of it, and he’s in therapy, trying to make sense of it all.
You deserved better, and I believe Ronan can be that better.
If you think he hasn’t cared or done anything for you in the past five years, I can honestly tell you that thought isn’t true. ”
My heart clenched at his words, emotions swirling like a tempest inside me. “What thought is wrong?”
“I won’t be the one to tell you that, mia cugina,19 nor can I tell you what to do, but all I can say to you is your happiness is worth far more than anyone.” )
I sighed, overwhelmed with emotion. “Thanks, Dillon.”
“You’re welcome, but I have to go now. Come visit the city soon. My gala is coming up, and we miss your charm around here.”
I chuckled, taking a bite of my gelato.
“Ah, yes. Take care,” I replied. We hung up, and I slowly made my way home.
I opened the wooden door to my apartment in Arezzo.
The scent of peonies mixed with warm sunlight coming through lace curtains.
Photos of old streets and vineyards hung on the walls, adding a timeless feel.
A leather sofa sat in the corner by shelves of fashion and history books.
The cool tile floor led to a small kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread from the bakery filled the air.
I grabbed my sketchbook and started designing, but couldn’t focus on anything but Ronan.
His eyes.
His lips.
His annoyingly perfect, symmetrical face.
Frustrated, I pushed myself up from the couch and headed to the kitchen to reheat the stuffed bell peppers my mom had prepared earlier and rushed out to my balcony.
I sought solace in the night air, hoping for clarity that never came. My mind circled back relentlessly to the same person, their presence haunting my thoughts like a stubborn ghost.
Dillon’s words echoed in my head, a bitter reminder: “If you think he hasn’t cared or done anything for you in the past five years, I can honestly tell you that thought isn’t true.”
Confusion intertwined with offense.
What had Ronan done for me recently besides causing heartache? And why, despite everything, did he remain an unshakeable fixture in my thoughts?
It was easier when he was distant, only a shadow in the background. But now that he was back, every glance, every word between us seemed charged with a depth I can’t ignore.
As if on cue, a message flashed on my phone from Alejandro, asking if I wanted to hang out, which I dismissed without a second thought.
Night draped the city in shadows, and with it came Ronan.
With a tired breath, I slipped into my closet, where old memories waited like ghosts. Beneath faded scarves and forgotten boxes, I found one tied with worn ribbons. Inside were sepia photos and an envelope sealed with a promise I never broke.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
The garden bloomed again around me—New York, peonies in the air, sunlight on Ronan’s face. His hand at my waist, his kiss warm against my cheek. Even faded, the moment was painfully alive.
Tears blurred my vision as I traced the edges of a life that never was, but beneath the ache, something steadier took root.
I returned the photos to their box and slid it back into the dark, leaving the past where it belonged.