Chapter 15 Emma
"Your home is beautiful," I say, changing the subject, trying to slice through the tension hanging between us.
There are some questions I can’t answer—and I’m surprised when he doesn’t push.
Why doesn’t he? I wonder.
"Want a tour?" he offers, that sly little smile tugging at his mouth.
I swear I almost murdered Karen earlier when she threw herself at him. I’ve never felt that kind of red-hot rage in my life. And the worst part? I knew he was doing it on purpose. Testing me. Watching to see if I still get jealous.
Well. He got his answer.
Luca stands and holds out his hand to me. I stare at it for a moment, his palm, his fingers. They’re different now. Broader, callused, more worn with time. But still his. I grab it, firm and certain, and rise with him.
I want to say it doesn’t feel like it’s been years since we held hands like this.
I want to tell him I want to stay in this moment—just us, no past, no pain.
But I can’t, not after what I found in that drawer.
A drawer full of… us. It didn’t feel like snooping.
It felt like bleeding. Because just like me, he never moved on.
He held onto the wreckage. And I wanted to scream that I never meant to hurt him.
That I did it for him. For us. And it destroyed me, too.
We walk into the house, still hand in hand. Jack trots beside us, tail wagging like he knows this is an important mission.
The place is out of a movie. Modern. Calm. Impeccably organized. Basically, my Pinterest board in real life. Too bad my real-life chaos would never survive here.
I never doubted he’d make it. And this house—this stunning view, this polished kitchen, these oceanfront windows—is the proof.
"This is where I train," he says, opening what looks like a seamless wall panel.
The gym is fully mirrored, probably bigger than the fitness center in my apartment complex.
At the back, hidden behind glass, is a tree. Medium-sized, delicate. Its twisting branches lit from above, surrounded by blue stones and soft light. It’s like a Zen Garden, only cooler.
"Wow…" I whisper, staring.
He’s not looking at the tree, though. He’s watching me with a look that makes it hard to breathe.
"I practice jiu-jitsu every morning," he says proudly, clearing his throat.
I step closer to the tree. The roots curl above the soil, crowned with smooth, blue stones.
"I’m not surprised." I smile. "You were obsessed with Bruce Lee. You had those ridiculous shirts with his face on them."
"Your memory’s good." He chuckles. "But Bruce Lee did kung fu. Not jiu-jitsu."
I turn and glare.
He laughs—deep and real—and takes my hand again. "Come on. There’s more."
He walks me through every part of the house, narrating with this childlike excitement that stirs something warm in my chest. He wants me to see what he’s built. To be proud of him.
"Lauren told me Silas has a place in Manhattan," I tease. "Do you two compete over real estate, too?"
He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. "You know how we are."
"Oh, I remember. Never seen brothers compete so hard over everything."
It’s strange, this ease—this openness. For years, I buried Luca in the farthest corner of my mind, the same place you shove your deepest fears. But now, standing in his home… It’s like we were never apart. And I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.
"Killian and Oliver compete over how many guest rooms they have," he adds with a crooked grin.
We make it to the kitchen. He presses a button on the wall and—surprise—a hidden wine fridge appears. Classic Luca. Always with the damn buttons.
He opens a bottle without asking and pours us each a glass.
"Are you lying to me right now?" I ask, taking the glass.
"Nope. We literally had a group chat argument about it this morning."
"How many do you have?"
"Only three."
"Only three?!" I laugh. "I can barely carve out space for my art corner."
We wander outside and sink into a pair of white lounge chairs facing the ocean.
Tall palms sway around us, gulls scream above the waves, and the air is sticky with salt and heat.
Luca doesn’t seem bothered by the humidity. Of course, he doesn’t. He belongs here now.
"Why don’t you exhibit your paintings?" he asks suddenly.
I laugh behind my glass. "They’re not as good as you think."
He sets his drink down, leans back, arm draped along the cushion, body turned fully toward me. He looks confident. Commanding. Ridiculously attractive in a white shirt and bare ankles.
Do I have an ankle fetish now? Because… I can’t stop staring.
“They are good. You’ve always been incredible with a brush.”
“Maybe back then. Not anymore.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t have you, Luca. Because when I lost you, I lost my spark. “It wasn’t just my mom’s illness that made me quit art school. I was awful. I mean, truly. My professors suggested I switch majors.”
He frowns. Visibly offended. “What kind of teacher says that instead of helping you improve? I’m sorry, Em, but they were idiots.”
I take another sip of wine, biting back a laugh at how worked up he suddenly is. “Thank you,” I say softly.
Not many people defend me. I’ve always had to do it myself. But Luca… it means something coming from him.
“You shouldn’t give up on your dreams,” he says.
I nod, thinking but not saying it—You did too, Luca. I don’t want to argue. I like this easy energy between us.
“Hey, Christmas is coming,” I say, changing the mood. “Why don’t you have any decorations up? No tree? Nothing?”
He chuckles and downs the last of his wine. "I only celebrate because my mom makes me. If it were up to me, it’d just be another day."
"God, you’re so boring."
He grins. But behind it, I catch a shadow. "What about you? Going to see your family?"
"No..." I say, scratching Jack’s ears. "I invited Lauren, but she can’t come. Hey, if you see Silas—can you give him her gift from me?"
Luca’s eyes narrow. His voice softens. "Is there anything I wouldn’t do for you, Em?" His smile fades. His eyes lock on mine.
Suddenly, I feel very small.
“Bring it to the office tomorrow,” he adds gently. “I won’t forget.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I should get Jack home. Right, buddy? You miss your mom?”
Right then, Luca sneezes. Uh-oh. The allergy meds are wearing off.
“I’ll drive you two. Let me grab shoes.” He disappears inside, reappears with sneakers and his car keys. “Unless…"—he smirks—“we drop him off… and come back?”
I raise one eyebrow.
“Worth a shot.” He shrugs. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
The Past
It’s Killian’s birthday, Luca’s youngest brother, and the Walkers have formally invited me.
You’d think it’d be a birthday party for teenagers, but nope. It feels more like a formal, cold, aristocratic dinner—the kind I used to imagine while reading Pride and Prejudice on quiet Saturday afternoons.
Luca warned me this is how birthdays go when his parents host them: classy, tight-lipped, elegant… and then later, the boys throw their own massive, carefree parties in some luxury destination far, far away.
The dining room is cavernous, walls paneled in dark wood, a chandelier dripping crystals over the long mahogany table.
Portraits of stern ancestors line the walls, their painted eyes following every move.
The windows are dressed in heavy curtains that mute the outside world, keeping us trapped in this bubble of wealth and scrutiny.
Silverware gleams under candlelight, the kind you know is family heirloom, and the air smells faintly of roasted meat and aged wine.
I get along well with the two younger brothers, especially Killian. He’s always grinning, teasing Luca and Oliver, the family’s golden rule-followers. Silas is away at college and said he couldn’t make it.
I’m thankful. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I saw him, not after what he did to my sister.
There’s a long table. The family’s seated, along with a few family friends and Luca’s paternal grandparents. Everyone’s chatting calmly, casually tossing around stock market numbers and tearing apart whatever politician they think is too liberal this week.
I try to eat with a little more grace tonight.
I’m wearing a plain black dress—serious, elegant. Luca frowned when he saw me in it, but I begged him not to comment. I was too nervous.
I left the ring in my nightstand drawer—we agreed. We’re not telling them yet, just in case the news doesn’t land well.
I have to admit, Luca’s parents do like me. His mom is always telling me how pretty I am, and his dad says, “They don’t make girls like you anymore.”
Still, when they’re around, I don’t really feel like myself. But that’s okay—I’m not marrying them. I’m marrying him.
I glance at Luca and catch a small smile when I realize he has one hand resting on my shoulder.
It clearly bothers the rest of the table.
I’ve heard Luca isn’t super affectionate with others, but with me? He always is. Even in public, though, he tries to be more subtle about it.
“Tell me, Emma,” his mother says, folding her delicate hands over the table, “what path are you planning to take after high school?”
I tense up immediately. They’ve never shown much interest in my personal life before, and something tells me art isn’t a topic that’ll wow the crowd.
“Um, I…”
“Fine Arts, Mom,” Luca cuts in, rescuing me from total meltdown.
The entire table goes quiet.
“You want to be a curator?” Mary Walker asks.
“Um…” Where did my vocabulary go?
“No, Mom,” Luca says again, proud this time. “Emma wants to be a painter. You should see her work—it’s honestly the best I’ve ever seen.”
I sink into my chair. Like, if the seat could just open up and drop me into hell, that’d be great.
“How… interesting,” Mary says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. No one follows up. No one asks questions.
“Thank you, Mrs. Walker,” I mumble.
“Pass the salad, Mary,” Luca’s grandmother says, and just like that, the conversation shifts to something else.
Luca slides his hand from my shoulder to my thigh and presses a kiss to my hair. “Remember,” he whispers in my ear, “I couldn’t care less what my parents think. And you shouldn’t either.”
I nod, grateful for him, but the heaviness in my chest doesn’t go away.
After that, the Walkers stop smiling at me. They stop saying things like “They don’t make girls like you anymore.” They’re polite, but colder. Distant.
From that moment on, I become the girl they don’t want for their son—and they make sure I feel it.
Every. Single. Minute.