Chapter Fifteen
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
I used to think I was too young to be teetering on the edge of insanity, but now I knew better.
Here I was, parked outside my boutique, scrolling through Ronan’s Instagram with a mix of hatred and a deep, foolish desire.
If it had been a one-time thing, I might not have cared, but four excruciating weeks had passed, and I hated myself for it.
It felt like he had cast a spell over me.
I’d dated great guys and forgotten them easily, but the one I needed to forget, I couldn’t.
Now, as if some invisible thread kept us bound, there were the gifts. Each one, handpicked, unmistakably from him.
A rare, vintage sewing kit one day, its rose-gold embroidery scissors glinting in the light.
Next, a silk scarf from Paris, the kind I’d dreamed of owning when I first entered fashion school. He knew these things about me, and he remembered. It was like he had stockpiled all the little things I’d wanted over the years, quietly listening and waiting.
Each time, I knew—without a card, without his name, from the choice itself—that they were from him.
But it was the sketchbook that broke me.
Handmade, with a leather cover etched with tiny ivy leaves—a symbol we both once loved—and filled with his sketches.
Designs for dresses he imagined I’d create, inspired by things I’d mentioned or details he’d noticed over the years.
I opened it for the first time and cried, alone in my bedroom, because only Ronan could’ve created something so intimate and sentimental.
I could almost hear him say, “One day, these designs will be yours.”
It was unbearable how well he still knew me. When I’d think I’d shaken him off, another package would appear on my doorstep, each one more personal than the last, each one tugging me right back to him.
I gazed out the window, my thoughts drifting back to a simpler time. The sudden reappearance of Ronan in my life had stirred up memories I thought were long buried.
It was a golden afternoon, and we were stretched out on a picnic blanket in the park.
The bright colors of the flowers around us matched my excitement as I talked about my latest fashion project.
I was explaining how I blended vintage styles with modern trends, my hands moving with each point I made.
“If you add a touch of lace here,” I said, sketching an imaginary design in the air, “it transforms the entire look. It’s like bringing a piece of the past into the present, you know?”
Ronan lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed. I paused, thinking he wasn’t listening, and sighed. “You probably don’t care about any of this, do you?”
He opened one eye and smiled softly. “Of course I care. You light up when you talk about fashion. It’s like watching an artist with a blank canvas.”
My heart fluttered. I looked at him, a mix of surprise and affection in my eyes. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, sitting up and taking my hand. “I may not understand all the details, but I see how passionate you are. That’s what matters to me.”
I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his support. The world appeared to be in complete harmony at the time.
I snapped out of my head, grabbed my black Chanel purse, and walked into the boutique, ready for a dream-come-true day to unfold.
As a child fascinated by fashion—staying up late for Fashion Police and devouring fashion books at the library—I never imagined I’d get the chance for a behind-the-scenes interview with Vogue Italia.
The magnitude of the opportunity thrilled and unsettled me.
Despite my passion and dedication, impostor syndrome whispered doubts, making me question whether I truly belonged among these style icons.
Choosing to do my fashion show was a big risk, but I was happy with my decision in hindsight.
I went into it blindly, not knowing what the outcome would be, and it has exceeded my expectations.
“Nina!” Francesa exclaimed, ever in high spirits. “You look stunning.”
I shared a warm smile with her before turning to the mirror. Dressed in a custom-made black pantsuit, a Fendi coat, and red Louboutins, I felt confident, every detail carefully chosen.
“Thank you, Fran,” I replied, “Is Inaya here?”
She pointed to the area where Inaya was busy, but what caught my eye—and made me run for the first time in years—was her hijab slipping. I rushed over to fix it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I woke up late, rushed down here, and forgot to tighten it. I’ve been trying to get this place ready for your big day.”
“It’s no worries. I know how important it is for you to keep your hair covered, and yes, it’s our big day.”
She grabbed the sheet of questions, and we went over them. With no media training, I could only hope God would be on my side today.
An hour later, the studio hummed with the controlled chaos only fashion could bring—cameras flashing intermittently and the Vogue crew setting up for my interview.
Racks of garments stood like sentinels, displaying my latest collection, a fusion of avant-garde structures and delicate fabrics, along with the most sought-after pieces from the fashion show.
I stood at the center, adjusting the final details of a gown that had consumed me for months. Its clean lines whispered complexity, a reflection of the dichotomy I sought in this season’s work.
“Ms. Moretti, I’m Renetta, and I’ll be your interviewer today,” she began, her voice laced with reverence. “Your latest collection is breathtaking. What inspired this blend of bold innovation and classical elegance?”
I smiled, pride and passion rushing through me. “It’s about capturing contrasts. This collection is inspired by my travels through Italian streets, where history and modernity collide in inspiring ways.”
She nodded, scribbling notes as the crew adjusted the lighting. Behind me, screens displayed clips of my runway show, models embodying the spirit of each piece—confident, yet vulnerable; structured, yet fluid.
“And your use of texture,” Renetta continued, curiosity in her eyes, “it’s almost alive. How do you achieve that balance?”
I paused, reflecting on hours spent experimenting in my studio. “Texture is my language. It’s about layering the contrasting fabrics and mixing unexpected materials. Each piece tells a story that resonates beyond the runway.”
The interview flowed effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and discovery. The crew captured every nuance—my excitement, the sweep of my hands as I described the process.
After a break, I took Renetta on a tour of my boutique, eager to share the creative space behind the designs. We entered the space alive with the hum of sewing machines and the rustle of fabric.
“This is where it all comes together,” I said, gesturing to seamstresses crafting prototypes. Each station hummed with activity, precision, and care.
I introduced Renetta to Francesca, my head seamstress, and Inaya, the one who kept the show running. They proudly showcased a gown nearing completion, its beading catching the light.
Next, we stepped into the fabric room, where silks in every shade spilled down one wall, and bolts of lace whispered promises of elegance.
“Inspiration starts here,” I said, running my fingers over a bolt of midnight blue silk. “Choosing the right fabric dictates the mood, the movement, and the story.”
By the time we circled back to the entrance, the afternoon light had softened to a golden hue. The crew had packed up, leaving a quiet stillness in contrast to the earlier frenzy.
“I hope you’ve gained insight into my world,” I said sincerely. “Fashion is more than clothing; it’s a canvas for expression and a medium where dreams take shape.”
“That was perfect!” Renetta beamed. “This will be edited and composed for publication.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” I replied, my gratitude far outweighing everything else.
“You deserve it. By the way, should we send the preview copy to Dr. Ronan Romano?”
Inaya and I exchanged confused glances. Why the hell would she be sending it to Ronan?
“Pardon?” I asked, frowning. “Why would he be getting it?”
She pulled out a referral letter signed and dated by Ronan. “He’s the referral and our connection to you.”
The air around me felt suddenly heavy, but my heart softened. He did this for me?
I pushed the thought away, refusing to get trapped in that again.
“Uh,” I stuttered, “He doesn’t need to get it.”
With that, the interviewer thanked me once more, and the entire crew filed out.
I gave Inaya a look that clearly said, let’s not even talk about that as she went off to handle some work. I sauntered into my office, my mind racing.
The interview had gone perfectly, and that’s what mattered.
Before I knew it, evening had fallen. The boutique was closed, and I was back home with Alejandro and Inaya, still processing everything. We sat on the balcony sofa, a gentle breeze sweeping through the streets.
“You good?” Ale asked, placing a hand on my shoulder, bringing me from thought.
I nodded briskly. “Crazy day, but I’m good.”
He pouted and scooted closer to me. Inaya looked at me with an I know something look on her face, and I sighed. What could it possibly be?
“You should get some sleep,” he offered. “It’s been a crazy few weeks.”
“It has,” Aya spoke up, “but any news to share?” She asked, changing the subject.
Shifting to a lighter tone, I mentioned, “I spoke to my mom today,” unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “I’m sending her on a European tour to enjoy life for a little bit.”
Ale’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing! She’s going to love it.”
Inaya nodded in agreement. “She’s always been there for you. It’s wonderful you can do this for her now.”
My mom had sacrificed so much for me, always putting my needs before her own. Finally, being able to give back to her was my achievement.
Ale stepped away to take a call from his father, and Inaya scooted closer, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, he likes you, right?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “We’re friends.”
Inaya rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. It’s so obvious. The way he looks at you, it’s like he’s completely smitten.”
“Even if that’s true,” I said, trying to keep my tone light but firm, “he knows we’re only friends. I’m not doing the whole love thing again. It’s too messy, too complicated.”
Inaya’s expression softened, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “You can’t let your past define your future, Nina. Not every guy is going to hurt you.”
Her words hit a nerve, and I felt a familiar pang in my chest as I thought about Ronan.
He was the only guy I’d ever truly loved and the only one I thought I’d ever be able to love, and I couldn’t see myself getting into anything new if it was with him.
It was stupid; I knew, and I hated him, yes, but that was the only thought I’d had for the past five years.
“I know.” I sighed, my gaze dropping to my glass of wine. “But I’m not ready to open that door again.”
She studied me for a moment, her eyes filled with empathy. “Take your time. But don’t close yourself off completely. You deserve happiness, too.”
I smiled weakly, appreciating her concern. “I’ll be fine. I survived five years, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she said, “But have you lived?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but couldn’t find the words.
She was right.
Ale returned, his smile as bright as ever, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics. But Inaya’s words stayed with me, planting doubt in my mind. Despite my efforts to deny it, I wondered if I was closing myself off because of Ronan, or because, deep down, I still harbored feelings for him.