18. Isabelle
The rehearsal dinner was held on the hotel's west terrace, overlooking the endless ocean.
Long tables draped in white linen. Candles flickering in glass hurricanes. Flowers everywhere—plumeria and orchids, their scent heavy in the warm evening air. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold, and the whole scene looked like something from a magazine.
I sat between Femi and Xavier, my plate untouched in front of me. The food was beautiful—seared fish with mango salsa, tropical fruits arranged like art, something with coconut that smelled incredible—but my stomach was in knots.
Tomorrow was the wedding. Tomorrow, Aria would walk down the aisle in the dress I'd made, and Sebastian would definitely cry, and my family would celebrate the beginning of something new.
And I still didn't know what I was doing with my own life.
Femi's hand found my knee under the table, his warm hand squeezed gently.
"You alright?" he murmured. "You've barely touched your food."
"Just nervous about tomorrow."
He smiled. "It's going to be fine, Issy. Better than fine. Aria's going to look stunning, and everyone will know it's because of you."
I nodded, trying to return his smile.
Across the table, I caught Matteo's eye. He was seated near the end, between one of Aria's cousins and the hotel coordinator. Professional distance. He looked away quickly, returning his attention to whoever was speaking to him.
The knot in my stomach tightened.
Xavier stood, tapping his fork against his glass. The chatter around the tables quieted.
"Alright, everyone. Before we get too deep into the wine—which is excellent, by the way—" He nodded toward Matteo. "I thought we'd hear from a few people. Starting with my favorite sister."
Every head turned toward me.
"Xavier—"
"Come on, Isa. Say a few words about the happy couple. You've known Sebastian longer than anyone here except me, and I already gave my speech at the engagement party."
I was going to murder him.
But everyone was waiting. Aria was looking at me with hopeful eyes. Sebastian was trying to hide a smile behind his wine glass.
I stood on unsteady legs.
"I'm not very good at speeches," I started. "Xavier got the public speaking gene. I got the... fabric gene, I suppose."
Polite laughter rippled through the group.
"But I can talk about my brother." I looked at Sebastian. "When we were young, Sebastian was always the responsible one. The one who held everything together when things fell apart. The one who made sure I did my homework, even when Dad was too busy to notice."
The word slipped out before I could catch it. Dad.
Something shifted in my chest, cracking open.
"Our father had certain expectations. For all of us, but especially for Sebastian.
He was supposed to take over the business, carry on the legacy, be everything Dad wanted him to be.
" I paused. "And he did. He became all of those things.
But somewhere along the way, he also became himself.
Someone kind, and thoughtful, and capable of a love so deep it's almost annoying to witness. "
More laughter, softer this time.
"Dad isn't here to see this. To see Sebastian marry the woman he loves. To see the man he's become." My voice wavered, but I continued talking. "I think about that sometimes. What he would say. Whether he'd be proud."
The terrace had gone quiet. I could feel everyone's eyes on me.
"I think he would be." I looked at Sebastian, whose eyes were suspiciously bright. "I think he'd look at you and Aria, at what you've built together, and he'd finally understand that love isn't something you plan. It's something you choose. Every day."
I raised my glass. My hand was shaking slightly.
"To Sebastian and Aria. May you keep choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of your lives."
"To Sebastian and Aria," everyone echoed.
I sat down quickly, my heart pounding, my eyes stinging.
Femi's arm slid around my shoulders immediately.
"That was beautiful," he said. "Absolutely brilliant. You did amazing."
I nodded, unable to speak.
"Seriously, Issy. Everyone was captivated. You looked incredible."
You looked incredible.
That's what he'd taken from it. Not the words. Not the emotion. It was how I looked.
"I need some air," I said, standing abruptly. "I'll be right back."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No. I just need a minute."
I walked away before he could argue.
The balcony off the terrace was empty, thank God. I gripped the railing and stared out at the ocean, breathing deeply, trying to push down the wave of emotion that had risen during the speech.
Dad.
I hadn't meant to talk about him. Hadn't meant to open that wound in front of everyone. But once I'd started, I couldn't stop. All those feelings I'd kept buried—the grief, the anger, the desperate wish that he could see what I'd become—they'd come pouring out.
And Femi had commented on how I looked.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing the tears to stay where they were.
"Bella."
I turned. Matteo stood a few feet away, framed by the doorway. The light from inside caught the angles of his face, the concern in his eyes.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
He didn't respond. Just walked to the railing and stood beside me, but not too close. He was respecting my space, as he stood there looking out at the water.
The silence stretched between us. Comfortable. Patient. He wasn't filling the air with meaningless words or trying to fix my feelings.
"That was a beautiful speech," he said finally, his accent gentle.
"I didn't mean to—" I stopped. Started again. "I didn't plan to talk about my father."
"The best speeches are the ones we don't plan. The ones that come from here." He touched his chest briefly.
"It felt like too much. Like I was making it about me instead of them."
"You were making it about family. About love. About the people who shape us, even when they're gone." He paused. "That's not too much, Bella. That's truth."
I looked at him. He was still watching the ocean, giving me space to compose myself. Not pushing. Not trying to fix anything.
"My father never believed in me," I said quietly. "He thought I was just... decoration. Something pretty to look at. He never took my work seriously. Never thought I could build something real."
"I know."
"He died before I could prove him wrong."
"I know that, too."
"Sometimes, I wonder if it would have mattered. If he would have changed his mind, or if he would have found some way to dismiss it, anyway. Call it luck. Say I had help. Find some reason why it didn't count."
Matteo was quiet for a moment.
"My father was the same," he said softly. "Always moving the goalposts. No matter what I achieved, it was never enough." He turned to look at me. "He died thinking I would fail. That everything I'd built would crumble the moment he wasn't there to hold it together."
"But it didn't."
"No. It didn't." He smiled, but it was sad around the edges. "And some days I think he would be proud, if he could see it. Other days, I think he would find something to criticize."
"How do you live with that? The not knowing?"
"I stopped trying to earn his approval." He said it simply, though I knew it couldn't have been. "I build what I build because I believe in it. Because it matters to me. His opinion doesn't change that."
I let out a breath. Felt something loosen in my chest.
"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. "Stop caring what he would have thought."
"You don't have to stop caring. You just have to stop letting it define you." He turned to face me fully. "You are more than his doubts, Bella. What you've built—your boutiques, your designs, the dress that woman is going to wear tomorrow—that's yours. You did that. No one else."
My eyes were stinging again. But this time, it didn't feel like grief. It felt different. It felt like something was breaking open. Something healing.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For understanding. For not trying to fix it."
He smiled. That soft, private smile I'd come to know so well.
"Some things don't need fixing. They just need witnessing."
We stood there for a moment longer, the ocean stretching endlessly before us, the sounds of the party drifting from inside. I wanted to reach for him. To close the distance between us, to tell him everything I'd been too afraid to say.
But before I could move, he straightened.
"I should let you get back," he said quietly. "Your family will be wondering where you are."
"Matteo—"
"Goodnight, Bella." He held my gaze for a moment—something tender and resigned in his eyes. "I hope tomorrow is everything you want it to be."
He turned and walked away. I watched him go, his silhouette disappearing through the doorway, back into the light and noise of the party.
And standing there, alone on the balcony with the stars emerging overhead, I finally understood.
I loved him.
Not maybe. Not almost. Not someday, if I figured things out.
I loved Matteo Rossi. Completely. Irrevocably. With a certainty that felt like coming home after being lost for years.
He knew me. Saw me. Understood the broken parts and loved them, anyway. He didn't try to fix me or manage me or mold me into something easier to hold. He just... witnessed. And in his witnessing, he made me feel whole.
Femi had never done that. For all his charm, all his effort, all his grand gestures—he had never once made me feel seen the way Matteo did with a single conversation on a balcony.
I had to tell him.
I had to end things with Femi, properly and finally, and then I had to find Matteo and tell him the truth. That I loved him. That I'd been too scared to admit it before, too tangled up in old feelings and old wounds, but I wasn't scared anymore.
I knew what I wanted.
I just had to be brave enough to reach for it.