Chapter 14 Luca #2
“Shut up,” she breathes, but her body arches into mine. “Let’s go before I can’t.”
Out of habit, she grabs my hand—and we both freeze for a second. Her hand in mine feels too damn familiar. Almost natural. Shit. I want to hold this hand forever.
No, Luca. You already offered her forever once, and she walked away—remember?
It’s obvious something happened between us. Emma’s hair is a mess, and my lips feel way too warm, but everyone pretends not to notice.
Except Karen. She’s fuming.
I should tell her she could never compete with Emma—not even close—but that would require giving a damn. And I don’t.
So...
“Shall we start?” Emma says way too cheerfully. She’s trying too hard, and I want to laugh because no one is buying it.
The producer starts giving instructions. Apparently, we’re filming in my office first, since the sun isn’t fully hitting the beach yet. The whole crew moves that way.
I don’t spend much time in this room—I usually work out of the P.G.
offices—but it’s a nice space. The walls are paneled in light wood, except for one that’s all glass from floor to ceiling, facing the ocean.
My desk is the same pale tone as the rest of the house, imported from Norway.
I like nice things—and luckily, I can afford them.
I sit down in my chair and wait for instructions.
Emma glances around, studying everything.
“It’s organized,” I mutter when I see her messing with my things.
“Exactly,” she whispers, tossing some notebooks around carelessly. “We want you to look like a person, not a man with a textbook case of OCD.”
“Hey—!” I protest, frowning. “I don’t have OCD.”
“And hell is just a sauna,” Emma fires back, that wicked spark in her eyes lighting up.
The camera gets positioned right in front of me, and I watch the guy behind it doing test shots. The director starts giving me instructions—how to pretend I’m working, where I can move, what the frame allows—and that’s when I catch Emma opening one of my drawers.
That drawer.
“Hey!” I snap, swatting her hand away. But I’m too late.
She freezes, staring inside with wide eyes. I slam it shut.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, stepping back—not just from the desk, but from me.
“Emma…”
“Mr. Walker, whenever you're ready,” the producer says, standing on the other side of the desk. She and the cameraman block Emma from view, but between their arms and gear, I catch sight of her wiping a tear from her cheek.
I don’t get it. Why is she crying? Embarrassment? Guilt? How can she be this shaken when she’s the one who left me standing there?
“Mr. Walker…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, jaw clenched. I want to kick everyone out of this damn room. I need to talk to her. Alone. “I’m ready.”
We go through the motions—fake typing, fake phone call, fake life—and I notice Emma’s gone. Not just out of frame. Out of the room.
I would’ve left too, if I’d opened that drawer.
It’s like a damn time capsule. A perfectly preserved version of who I used to be—who we used to be. I haven’t opened it in ages. But I’ve wanted to. More times than I’ll ever admit.
And now she’s seen it.
The black-and-white bandana she wore back in high school. The woven bracelets she used to make. That picture Killian snapped of us laughing at a party. And the ring.
That stupid ring I never threw out—because apparently, I enjoy self-torture.
Shit.
How did I forget those were in there? She must think I’m completely unhinged. Like, I never moved on. Like I’ve been stuck in the past for years. And maybe… she wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
“We’re ready for the beach shot,” someone says. Their voice sounds miles away.
“We’ll need a quick outfit change, Mr. Walker, something more casual for the dog walk.”
I nod, barely listening, and head to my room. Honestly, I need a second to breathe. But when I walk in…Emma’s there. Sitting at the foot of my bed. With Jack.
She’s crying. And that damn dog is trying to comfort her, resting his muzzle gently on her legs.
“Em…”
Emma looks up, startled to find me here. She was never good at hiding.
“I need to change… for whatever stupid scene’s next,” I mutter, like I need to explain myself. This is my house. My bedroom. I shouldn’t feel like an intruder.
“Right. Sorry. We’ll go,” she says, standing up with an awkward shuffle. But before she makes it out, I catch her wrist.
“It’s not what it looked like, Em. I haven’t cleaned out those drawers in years,” I lie.
God, I hate lying to her. It was the one rule we always had—no bullshit.
Then again, the unspoken rule was don’t break each other’s hearts. And she blew that one to pieces.
Her green eyes glow, all water and fire, beautiful and raw. But then, just like that, her face hardens. “I’m gonna pretend you’re not lying to me, Gargoyle.” And with that, she slips out of my grip and disappears from my room.
The rest of the day is a goddamn performance.
I walk along the beach with Jack, pretending to be one of those approachable, easygoing guys who live simple lives and smile for cameras.
Yeah, no.
I’m not approachable. There’s nothing simple about me—just layers and walls and tightly wound control. And humility? That left the building years ago.
Emma keeps her distance. Always two steps behind.
By the time we’re shooting what they swear is the final shot of the day, I find her sitting on a lounge chair, staring out at the water, completely zoned out.
I’d trade my entire bank account to know what the hell she’s thinking right now. Just five seconds. That’s all I’d need.
“We done?” I ask Sam, not taking my eyes off her.
“Yeah. For today, at least. Tomorrow, we shoot the office scenes.”
“Perfect.” My voice is flat, but my heart’s a riot. The love of my life is drowning in sadness right in front of me, and I’m supposed to just go back to business as usual? “Sam, can you get everyone out of the house?”
Sam looks at me like he knows. Maybe he does. Maybe this is what regret looks like to outsiders.
“Of course, Mr. Walker.” He squeezes my shoulder gently. “Good luck.”
Thanks. I could use it. But instead of saying that, I just nod.
One by one, they all leave.
Everyone except Jack—still lying across her legs like a loyal little guardian.
I walk barefoot through the sand. For the final shot, I threw on a pair of white linen pants rolled up to my ankles and a light blue shirt, the top three buttons undone.
“I’ve never seen you wear white,” she says, eyes still fixed on Jack, her hand resting on his back.
“You know I’ve always felt safer in black.”
I sit down beside her, letting my gaze rest on the endless turquoise stretch of ocean in front of us. The seagulls shriek like the pounding in my chest.
“It’s not the black that makes you feel safe,” she says quietly. “It’s that you can hide in the shadows.”
Damn. She’s right.
“And you…” I murmur, “You always shone too damn bright. Is that why you ran from me?”
Her hand goes still on Jack’s back, and for the first time, she looks at me.
When our eyes lock, I don’t see anything. No emotion. No flicker. No trace of the girl who once knew every inch of my heart.
“I didn’t run from you, Luca,” she says softly, firmly. “Don’t get it twisted.”
I turn toward her fully, take both her hands in mine. Jack lets out a whine at the sudden lack of attention. “Then tell me. Please. Tell me what I did that made you leave.”
I sound pathetic. Desperate. Fractured. And God, I hate it. But that’s what I am. That’s who I am with her—no armor, no pretense, just pain wrapped in skin.
Emma shakes her head slowly, denying me the answer I’ve needed for years.
And just like that—
My heart breaks.
Again.