Chapter Nineteen
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
A heavy sigh escaped me as I slumped in my boutique office, surrounded by a beautiful chaos of sketches and fabric swatches scattered across my desk. The day had dragged on, exhaustion stitching itself deeper with each passing hour.
I lingered on the words, memories of my twenty-ninth birthday last week filling the quiet room.
It had been a simple night at home with Inaya and Alejandro, laughing over slices of tres leches cake that had mysteriously appeared at my door.
It was my favorite, and deep down, I knew who had sent it.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that every anonymous gift I received on that day over the years unmistakably had his touch.
I glanced at my empty espresso cup, debating another shot of caffeine when a soft knock on the door broke the silence.
What followed stole my breath: an exquisite bouquet of hand-crocheted peonies, their hues ranging from deep red to rich purple. My heart quickened as I noticed the note tucked between the flowers, written in Ronan’s impeccable handwriting.
These won’t perish, and neither will my love for you.
Happy Birthday, tesoro.
- RR
RR, standing for Ronan Romano, of course.
A wave of warmth spread through me as I traced the script, picturing the teasing smirk that so often accompanied Ronan’s thoughtful gestures.
But what truly captivated me was the art itself.
As I lifted one of the peonies, its petals felt impossibly soft beneath my fingertips—each stitch meticulous, each detail exquisite.
Had he made these himself?
The yarn was unmistakably qiviut—luxuriously rare, costing nearly five hundred euros per yard.
My pulse quickened as I held the delicate bloom closer, its presence a tangible echo of the man who had always had an uncanny way of unraveling me.
Ronan Romano could be maddening, infuriating even, but his ability to offer such profound care and precision left me breathless.
Still, every act of tenderness was a double-edged sword—a history that both warmed and troubled my heart in equal measure.
“Always the charmer,” I murmured to myself, shaking my head fondly.
With a decisive nod, I instructed the delivery to be rerouted to my home, keeping one stalk to grace my cluttered desk.
As evening descended, I prepared for a prestigious fashion event I couldn’t afford to miss. Since my Vogue interview aired, the success, ratings, and attention had skyrocketed, making my presence at such events almost expected.
I slipped into a breathtaking black gown, the fabric molding to me like a second skin. The neckline was my favorite detail, accentuating my collarbones, with the right hint of allure.
Alejandro arrived right on time. Inaya had been my first choice, but she had prior plans.
“Nina, you look breathtaking,” he greeted me with a warm smile. “I like the neckline.”
“Thanks, Alejandro,” I said, returning his smile. His black tux exuded effortless sophistication, but once again, my mind drifted to Ronan. Every damn time.
Together, we arrived at the venue where a grand ballroom transformed into a spectacle of haute couture and opulence. The room buzzed with excitement as designers, models, and socialites mingled, their conversations a melodic hum against the backdrop of lively music.
I exchanged pleasantries with fellow designers and acquaintances.
“Nina, darling, your latest collection is divine,” complimented Isabella, a prominent fashion critic from Harper’s Bazaar, whose approval carried serious weight in the industry.
“Thank you, Isabella,” I replied graciously.
Alejandro and I navigated through the crowd, stopping to admire the exquisite garments and accessories sparkling under the spotlights.
“Nina, have you considered expanding your line to include more eveningwear?” asked Dominik, a junior Russian designer whose avant-garde creations always intrigued me.
“It’s something I’ve been exploring,” I admitted, intrigued by his suggestion. “Perhaps we could collaborate on a project in the future.”
“Most definitely,” he agreed and slipped me his business card. “Keep in touch.”
With my social battery finally sputtering out, I slipped away from the crowd, seeking some space to breathe. As I made my way to an empty seat, I stumbled directly into someone I wished I hadn’t.
“Isn’t that—”
“Lucio,” I cut him off, pasting on a polite smile. “It’s been a while. How are you?”
Lucio stood before me, looking every inch like a replica of Ronan, his jaw as sharply cut, his expression not as intense.
They were identical, but I could always tell them apart.
Only now, he had a striking woman on his arm, her elegant smile laced with the same intrigue glimmering in his eyes.
I could feel my pulse spike as I met Lucio’s gaze.
“Nina,” he replied smoothly, his gaze flickering from me to Alejandro standing at my side. His eyes narrowed, clearly piecing together the delicate web I was tangled in. “It has been a long time. And you are…?”
Heat crept up my neck at the thought of Ronan finding out. He was dramatic enough as it was, and the last thing I needed was him showing up. But Lucio and his brother were as thick as thieves—there was no doubt in my mind that the moment Lucio walked away, Ronan would know everything.
“Her date,” Alejandro said without missing a beat, slipping his hand protectively around my waist.
“My friend,” I corrected quickly, feeling Alejandro tense beside me, his face unreadable.
Lucio’s smile remained fixed, but the glint in his eyes hinted he knew exactly the ripple effect he’d set in motion.
“Interessante,22” he murmured, his tone loaded with hidden implications.
Alejandro shot me a puzzled look, mirroring my own confusion. Whether it was Lucio’s uncanny resemblance to Ronan or the chaos I knew this would cause, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Ronan and I were over. Long gone. I repeated it to myself, hoping it would stick.
But as Lucio’s gaze lingered on mine, a flicker of unease crept in.
Why did it matter if he saw me with Alejandro?
I owed Ronan nothing. No amount of loyalty. No love. Nothing.
“We should go.” Alejandro’s calm voice broke through the tension, his perceptive nature catching my unspoken unease.
“Of course.” Lucio’s gaze never wavered as he replied, his words a subtle promise. “I’ll let my brother know I saw you.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving a faint chill in his wake.
Sensing my distraction, Alejandro guided me to a softly lit alcove where a photographer waited. With a steadying smile, he murmured, “Nina, let’s capture this moment.”
I nodded, allowing myself to be drawn into the present, Alejandro’s hand warm and grounding as we posed. And for a brief moment, I let go of Ronan’s shadow, leaning fully into the here and now.
Flashbulbs illuminated us, freezing the scene in time—a snapshot of elegance and companionship amidst the glittering backdrop of the fashion elite.
Little did I anticipate that our picture would grace the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers, capturing the attention of gossip columnists and social media alike.
As the night progressed, I immersed myself in the festivities, savoring the fleeting moments of joy and connection until I headed home and stripped down, allowing the cold water to cascade down my body.
My hand brushed across an ever-present scar on my stomach that I got when I was little and fell off my mother’s bed and landed right on a broken piece of glass.
That night was one I was truly fearful of, and from which I got those stitches, the scar never fully disappearing.
It was one of the reasons I rarely wore revealing clothes or bikinis.
I hated the scar. I hated how ugly it made me feel, and as that thought came into my head, I remembered yet another moment with Ronan, one that was so conflicted.
I normally had no problem forgetting people or moving on from things. The circumstances I grew up in showed me that, but he was a fever I couldn’t shake and a deep scar I couldn’t get rid of.
In the steam-filled bathroom of our shower years ago, I stood with Ronan, the warmth of the water enveloping us. The tiled walls echoed with the soothing sound of running water, creating a serene backdrop for our intimate moment.
His touch was gentle and purposeful as he caressed my back, his fingertips tracing the contours of my body with a tender reverence.
I glanced down, feeling the familiar self-consciousness tug at my heart as his gaze settled on the faint scar across my stomach—a relic from a childhood mishap that had left its mark.
But instead of averting his eyes or pretending not to notice, he looked at me with an unwavering intensity that sent a flutter through my chest.
“La tua bellezza non ha uguali,23” he murmured, his voice a reassuring whisper against the steamy air. His words soothed my insecurities, washing away any lingering doubts about my worthiness.
I dared to meet his gaze, finding nothing but pure devotion and adoration shining back at me.
His hand moved with deliberate tenderness, tracing the path of the scar with a feather-light touch that sent a tingling sensation through my skin. I held my breath as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the scar with a delicate reverence that took my breath away.
“Ronan… I—” I exhaled, the words caught in my throat. “I hate that you’re seeing it.”
“I don’t hate that I’m seeing it. All parts of you are perfect and beautiful,” he mused, his lips pressing a kiss to my scar.
The sensation was electrifying yet comforting, a paradoxical mix of vulnerability and strength. His kiss on the scar felt like an affirmation that he accepted me wholly, scars and all, without reservation or judgment.
My mind was restored to the present moment, and I hopped out of the shower, rushing to my bedroom as a wave of emotion clung to my chest.
An ache.
A mere wanting I shouldn’t have.
A wanting for him.
A longing I couldn’t shake.
His smile, his touch, were still etched in my mind despite my efforts to forget.
I collapsed onto my bedroom floor, tears streaming down my face. The emotions I thought I’d buried surged to the surface, overwhelming me.
How could I still feel this way after everything?
He hurt me.
He ruined me.
He broke my heart.
He left me.
I knew that.
But why did it still hurt so much?
Why did a part of me still want him, despite the pain?
Curling into myself, I cried until exhaustion took over.