5. Isabelle
Femi was back in my life.
I lay in the darkness of my New York apartment, listening to him breathe beside me. Steady. Peaceful. The sleep of a man with no doubts, no second-guessing.
Two months ago, he was a ghost I'd spent eight years outrunning. Now he was here, warm and solid, his arm draped across my waist like it belonged there.
My body had made the decision before my mind could catch up.
Every time he walked into a room, my pulse quickened traitorously.
Every time he touched me, my skin remembered things I'd tried to forget.
We fit together the same way we always had—easy, natural, like sliding back into a language I'd never quite forgotten how to speak.
But something nagged at me. A whisper of doubt I couldn't silence.
Yes, we'd gone our separate ways because he wanted a wife and I had a career to build. Yes, we'd been compatible back then. But that was eight years ago. I'd changed. I wasn't the girl who'd run away from a proposal in a Swiss garden.
I was a woman now. Sure of myself. Confident. Independent in ways I hadn't known I could be.
What if he'd changed too? What if our new selves didn't fit the way our old selves had?
I turned my head on the pillow and studied his face in the dim light. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, even in sleep. The way his lips parted slightly with each exhale.
"You're staring at me again."
I jumped. His eyes were still closed, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I wasn't staring. I was just... struggling to sleep."
He reached out and pulled me closer until my head rested against his chest, my ear pressed to the steady drum of his heartbeat. His lips found the curve of my neck, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss there that made my breath hitch.
"I'm glad we're doing this," he murmured. "Trying again. I never stopped thinking about you, Issy. Not once in eight years." His arms tightened around me. "I can't wait to see what the future holds for us."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't find words that felt true.
"Our paths crossed at exactly the right time," he continued, his voice warm with certainty. "Both of us are successful and ready. We’re finally mature enough to make this work. It couldn't be more perfect."
He held me. I let myself be held, even as something in my chest tightened.
Maybe this would work. Maybe we really were meant to find our way back to each other.
We hadn't slept together yet. That was my rule. I needed a clear head to make up my mind about this relationship, and sex with Femi would cloud my judgment. He was too talented. Too blessed with certain... advantages. And he knew my body too well, knew exactly how to get me where I needed to go.
One night with him and I'd lose all objectivity.
He'd agreed without complaint. Another sign he'd changed, I told myself. The old Femi would have pushed.
I moved closer and let his heartbeat lull me to sleep.
Morning arrived with the smell of bacon, rich and savory.
I opened my eyes to find Femi setting a tray on the bedside table with careful precision. Fresh fruits, perfectly scrambled eggs, toast the exact shade of golden I liked, orange juice in a crystal glass, and a single white rose.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." He leaned down and kissed me on the lips, his beard scratching pleasantly against my skin.
"I haven't brushed yet," I protested, turning my face away.
"Don't care." He kissed me again. "Eat. You have a long day ahead."
I sat up and pulled the tray onto my lap. The eggs were perfectly scrambled. The toast was golden. He'd remembered I liked my bacon almost burnt and crispy enough to shatter.
"When did you order this?"
"I didn't order it. I made it." He settled onto the bed beside me, stealing a piece of fruit from my plate.
"You cooked." I stared at him. "Since when do you cook?"
"Since I realized impressing you required more than just my looks." He grinned, and for a moment he looked exactly like the boy I'd fallen in love with at seventeen.
I bit into the toast to hide my smile.
Sebastian's apartment was chaos incarnate. It was even more chaotic than before. Zoe met me at the door wearing a tutu over her jeans and a plastic tiara askew on her head.
"Auntie Belle! I'm practicing being a princess!"
"You're doing an excellent job."
"I know." She grabbed my hand. "Come see Evie. She's eating all the chocolate chips for the cookies."
In the kitchen, Evie sat at the counter with a bowl of chocolate chips that was definitely supposed to be for baking. She looked up guiltily when I walked in.
"Hi, Auntie Isabelle."
"Hi, sweetheart. Enjoying yourself?"
She nodded solemnly and ate another chip.
Kim appeared and shooed both girls toward Zoe’s room. "Go play. The adults need to talk."
"About what?" Zoe asked.
"Boring things."
"Then why can't we stay?"
"Because boring things are for boring adults. Go."
The girls ran off, Zoe already launching into an elaborate explanation about princess kingdoms. In the living room, Aria sat surrounded by fabric swatches and invitation samples. Her binder had somehow grown larger since I'd last seen it.
"Finally!" She looked up with relief. "I desperately need your opinion on napkin colors."
"They're all white," Kim said flatly, settling beside her.
"They're eggshell, ivory, and cream. Completely different."
I took the samples Aria handed me. "The ivory. It'll photograph better in natural light."
"Thank you." She shot Kim a look. "See? Not all white."
We settled into the familiar rhythm of wedding planning. Colors, flowers, seating arrangements. At some point, Aria's expression shifted into something carefully casual.
"So… Tell us about Femi."
I'd expected this. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Kim's been curious."
"I'm mildly interested," Kim corrected. "Aria's the one who stalked his Instagram."
"Research."
I gave them the short version. Boarding school in Switzerland. Three years together. Young love, the kind that feels like it will last forever until it doesn't.
"Why did you break up?" Kim asked gently.
The memory came before I could stop it.
That garden. Early spring, roses beginning to bloom. Femi on one knee, velvet box in his hand.
"Marry me, Issy. Be my wife."
I'd frozen. Couldn't speak. I was eighteen, with dreams so big they kept me awake at night, and he was asking me to become someone's wife before I'd even become myself.
"I can't."
The hope drained from his face, replaced by something raw and wounded. He'd stood slowly, the box still open in his palm.
"Why not?"
"I'm not ready. I have things I need to do first. A career. A life. I can't just—"
"Can't just what? Love me? Build something together?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His voice had cracked. "I love you, Isabelle. I want to spend my life with you. Why isn't that enough?"
I didn't have an answer. Not one that wouldn't hurt him more.
I walked away while he called my name. Never looked back.
"We wanted different things," I said, pulling myself back to the present. "He was ready to settle down. I had a career to build."
Aria was watching me carefully. "And now? Have you talked about whether you want the same things this time?"
I shook my head.
Kim touched my hand. "You need to have that conversation, Isa. Before anyone gets hurt again."
She was right. I knew she was right.
"I will," I said. "Soon."
My phone buzzed. Xavier.
"Sorry." I stepped away to answer. "Hello?"
"Hey, Isa. Quick thing. I need the code to your apartment."
"Why?"
"Can't say. Sworn to secrecy." His voice was light, but I could hear him moving, keys jingling in the background. "Come on. Trust me."
"Is this Femi's doing?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny."
I sighed. "Fine. 4792."
"You're the best. See you tonight."
He hung up. I pocketed my phone and returned to find Aria sketching dress ideas while Kim made detailed notes.
"Everything okay?" Kim asked.
"Xavier. Being mysterious."
"So, normal Xavier."
"Basically."
We moved on to the dress. Aria had ideas—classic but modern, romantic but not fussy. I sketched while she talked, modifying lines, adjusting proportions.
"What about the bridal shower?" Kim asked. "Have we set a date?"
"Next month. And I know exactly what I want for drinks." Aria's expression turned almost dreamy. "That wine from the launch party. Matteo's wine. I'm obsessed. We have to have him at the wedding."
Matteo. The wine vendor. I remembered him vaguely—the tasting, his passion when he talked about his grandfather's vines.
"His wine is good," I agreed. "Makes sense."
"Good? It's exceptional. Sebastian doesn't understand, but I don't care. We're having it."
We finished around four. I hugged everyone goodbye and headed back to my apartment, wondering what Xavier and Femi had been planning.
The door was unlocked.
I stepped inside and stopped.
Flowers. Everywhere. Roses and peonies covering every surface, filling the apartment with overwhelming scent. It looked like someone had robbed a botanical garden.
On the center table, a card in his handwriting.
Something beautiful to match the woman I love. See you soon. —F
I heard movement behind me and turned. Femi stood in the doorway to the bedroom, looking pleased with himself.
"Do you like it?"
"It's too much."
"It's exactly enough." He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. "Ready to go?"
"Where's my car?"
"I sent it away. I'm driving you to the airport myself." He grabbed my suitcase—already packed, probably Xavier's doing. "Come on. Your empire awaits."
The drive was quiet. His hand rested possessively on my knee. At the jet, he kissed me—long, slow, thorough.
"There's a surprise waiting at your hotel," he murmured against my lips. "Don't argue. Just enjoy it."
"You're too much."
"I'm exactly enough." He smiled. "Call me when you land, yeah?"
The Milan Centrale Hotel gleamed in the evening light.
I checked into the penthouse suite. The door opened onto luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Duomo, marble floors, fresh flowers in terracotta pots.
And on the bed, a garment bag.
I unzipped it slowly.
Inside was a dress. Pink satin, cut in a style I recognized immediately—one of my designs from two seasons ago. A piece I'd mentioned once, casually, wishing I'd kept it for myself.
A note was pinned to the hanger.
I remembered you saying you wished you'd kept this one. Good luck with the opening. —F
He'd tracked down one of my own dresses. Found a buyer willing to part with it. Had it delivered here.
I hung the dress carefully in the closet and stood there for a moment, overwhelmed.
Then I texted him: How did you know?
His response came immediately: I have my ways.
The boutique was in crisis.
Meg met me at the door the next morning, her usual composure cracked around the edges.
"We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The mannequins. They're not here."
I stared at her. "What do you mean? They were supposed to arrive three days ago."
"I know. I called the vendor this morning to confirm delivery, and they said the order was never finalized. Something about a missing signature."
The missing signature. Mine, probably. Some form buried in the chaos of the past two weeks.
"Did you send me the form?"
Meg hesitated. "Before the New York trip. I thought you'd signed it."
I closed my eyes. There had been so many documents. So many details. The form was probably buried in paperwork while I was distracted by Femi.
"We need to fix this. Call the vendor. See if we can expedite it."
"I already called. Earliest delivery is seven days."
"The opening is in five."
My head pounded. I pressed my fingers to my temples. Four hours of sleep. A transatlantic flight. And now this.
"There has to be another option. Other vendors. Rentals. Something."
"I'll start making calls."
"I will, too. We'll split the list." I grabbed my phone. "Just keep me updated."
I stepped outside, found a quiet corner of the street, and called Femi.
It rang. And rang. Voicemail.
I tried again. Same result.
I went back inside and spent the next three hours on the phone. Dead ends. Vendors who couldn't deliver in time. Rental companies that didn't have what I needed.
My phone finally buzzed. Femi.
"Issy. Sorry, I missed you. I was in a meeting. Everything alright?"
"No." I took a breath, tried to keep my voice steady. "The mannequins aren't here. The order was never finalized. The opening is in five days and I have nowhere to display my clothes."
"What? How did that happen?"
"A missing form. Something I should have signed."
“What? Issy… that’s the first thing you should have done. Have you called the vendor?"
"Yes."
"What did they say?"
"Seven days for delivery."
"That's too late. You need to find alternatives. Other suppliers, rental companies—have Meg pull a list, prioritize by proximity, check reviews—"
I felt my mind start to fog over. I'd been doing this for hours. I didn't call for a strategy session. I called because I was tired and overwhelmed and needed someone to say it would be okay.
I wanted comfort, not a lecture.
"—and make sure to get everything in writing this time. You can't afford another miscommunication."
I closed my eyes. My head was pounding.
"Isabelle? Are you there?"
"Yes." My voice came out flat. "I have to go. I'll call you later."
I hung up before he could say anything else.
For a moment, I just stood there. Breathing. Then I went back inside. Meg was on the phone, speaking rapid Italian. She looked up when I entered, covered the mouthpiece. "There's a company in Florence. But they won't take phone orders. Someone needs to go in person."
I could go. Sort this out. Be back tonight. "Give me the address."
The train to Florence was half-empty.
I sat by the window and watched Lombardy blur into Tuscany. Golden fields giving way to rolling hills. Cypress trees standing like dark sentinels against the sky.
My phone sat silent in my lap. Femi hadn't called back.
I wasn't disappointed. I wasn't.
The address Meg had given me led to an industrial district on the outskirts of the city. I took a taxi from the station and found myself standing in front of a gray warehouse that looked nothing like the pictures on their website.
The front office was locked. A sign on the door said they'd moved locations three months ago.
I checked my phone. No signal.
I started walking, turning corners, and getting more lost with each step.
I stopped in front of a small café to get my bearings. Pulled out the address again, stared at it like it might suddenly make sense.
"Bella?"
I looked up.
Matteo Rossi stood on the sidewalk, paper bag in one hand, espresso cup in the other. He stared at me like I was a mirage.
"Che sorpresa," he said softly. "What are you doing in Florence?"