Chapter 38 Manuela
MANUELA
The staff moves in synchronized precision, placing plates in front of us, uncorking bottles of wine that glint ruby in the candlelight. The clatter of cutlery rises, laughter skipping across the tables, a hum of comfort that feels choreographed, like Elle willed this whole room into existence.
I stab at my appetizer, smiling faintly at something someone across the table says, but my eyes drift again—always, always—to him. Connor leans back, shoulder loose, his arm draped over the back of Cash’s chair. He looks at ease. Radiant in a way that makes my chest ache so much.
It’s ridiculous, really. He belongs here.
Cousin of the groom, lifelong friend, part of the fabric of this group.
But there’s always been something in him that stands just at the edge, observing, calculating, never fully sinking in.
Now? He looks woven into it. And maybe that’s why my heart twists, because I recognize myself in that distance.
Ninety percent of the time, I’m the outsider.
Smiling, laughing, but still a spectator.
And yet, this week, with Camila by my side, with Connor’s eyes always finding mine, I’ve felt that shifting.
I’ve felt the thread tug me closer. Which makes this twist sharper.
Because just when I thought maybe I could fit into this world somehow, I see him, and he looks like he already does. Without me.
The chair beside me scrapes suddenly, and Camila slides into it, a little out of breath. Her ponytail is slightly skewed, a piece of hair slipping loose, and her lipstick looks freshly reapplied but imperfect.
“Ey,” she says, smoothing her dress down, trying to collect herself. It’s a long-sleeved periwinkle thing that makes her eyes look impossibly bright. “What did I miss?”
“Absolutamente nada,” I reply, glancing around as the servers bustle through the side doors, balancing trays with military precision. “?Dónde estabas?”
“Oh, umm…” Camila’s gaze flicks across the room toward George, who’s sitting across from Connor with his tie loosened and his shirt buttoned wrong, two holes mismatched like he dressed in a rush. “I needed to touch up my lips.”
“Sure,” I say with a chuckle, letting her excuse slide. Honestly, Camila’s arrival has been one of the highlights of this trip. It feels like we’ve known each other our whole lives, and despite being roommates for more than a year now, the past few days have been a very welcome respite.
And the other highlight? Well, it’s obvious.
So obvious that my eyes drift back to Connor. He thanks a server with a grin so wide it lights up his whole face, the sight making my pulse stumble.
“?Y vos?” Camila asks, eyes searching my face as though she already knows the answer. “Ready to head home?”
“Yes,” I say automatically. A small sigh slips out, and I pray she doesn’t hear the crack in it. Because what I want to scream is, No. I don’t want to go.
I don’t want to leave this bubble, this impossible little world where he exists for me and I exist for him. Where my days aren’t just commutes and deadlines and missing home so much it gnaws at me until I can’t sleep. Tres Fuegos feels so far away in New York, like I left half of myself there.
Here, I feel… alive.
“Same,” Camila says, eyes darting toward George, who is now standing off to the side, talking animatedly to a group of older guests. She’s glowing just from looking at him, and the image makes a bubble of laughter rise in my chest before I can stop it. “But we don’t leave until next Wednesday.”
I groan, and she chuckles, swishing her ponytail like nothing in the world could bother her.
And then the air changes.
The door at the far end of the ballroom opens, a hush falling for just a beat before the chatter rushes back. I glance up absently, half expecting another service.
Instead, it’s her.
Athena.
My stomach drops so violently I grip the edge of the table.
She’s stunning. Of course she is. She always has been—the kind of beauty that makes people pause mid-sentence.
Hair glossy, dress draped like liquid silk, smile polished to perfection.
She walks like she owns the room, and maybe she does, because eyes follow her, people stopping conversations to say hi to her. Before I can blink, she’s by his side.
“Connie.” Her voice is syrup, warm and familiar, too loud in my ears. She places her hand on his arm, lingering, possessive. Athena’s body angles toward his, like the two of them are magnets that naturally click back into place.
He startles, chair scraping faintly as he straightens.
And before I can process his expression—shock, guilt, I can’t really tell—two people are there flanking her.
By the looks of it, they may be his parents.
The resemblance to his dad is uncanny, and I’m too stunned to move.
His mother is glowing, and his father claps him on the shoulder like the prodigal son has finally come home.
The table erupts around them. Hannah gasps, and Nicole grins wide. Someone else—Sterling, maybe—calls out something about it being too long since they’ve seen her. And everyone claps her back into the circle like she never left.
I can’t breathe.
It’s chaos—laughter, greetings, chairs shifting, silverware clattering against plates—but all I hear is the rushing in my ears. All I see is her hand on his arm, his parents leaning in, the circle closing tight around them.
And I realize, with a clarity that cuts like glass, that they didn’t know. No one knew they broke up. Not his parents. Not his friends.
Which means that to them, she is still his. And he is still hers.
I press my palm flat to the tablecloth, trying to steady the shaking in my fingers. Camila says something in my ear, but it’s drowned out by Athena’s laugh, bright and familiar.
Connor glances across the room then, and for just a second, and our eyes catch.
There’s something raw in his face, but it doesn’t matter. Because the damage is already done. To everyone here, I am invisible. And she is Athena, the girl who fits.
Heat rushes up my throat, searing, burning. My vision blurs, and I have to look away before I shatter into a million pieces right here in front of them all.
I clear my throat and sip my wine just to keep my hands busy, but it does nothing to numb the ache. The glass is trembling when I set it back down.
Camila leans in then, her shoulder brushing mine, her voice pitched low enough for only me to hear.
“Do you want to go outside for a minute?” The words take a moment to register.
Her offer is soft and steady, an anchor against the chaos swirling around us.
“Or we can leave now if you want. I’ll walk you back to the house. ”
Laughter rises at Connor’s table, Athena touching his sleeve again, his mother beaming like she’s watching a dream come true.
And I sit there, smiling tightly, pretending I’m not unraveling. Pretending I don’t feel like the floor just gave out beneath me.
Because of course. Of course this was never real.
It was always going to be her.