CHAPTER 2
ROXANNE
The next day began with surgical precision.
Our first stop was the Louis Vuitton showcase—Objets Nomades and Trunks Collection.
It was an immersive experience—innovative furniture and design pieces blending heritage craftsmanship with contemporary aesthetics, all embodying Louis Vuitton’s Art de Vivre.
Each piece felt like a manifesto in form. Beautiful and ordered. Unlike me.
The venue, Palazzo Serbelloni, was a marvel in itself.
The beauty of the Palazzo lay in its details.
From frescoed ceilings to marble finishes, and light-filled halls that reflect centuries of Italian history.
Once a palace, it currently housed the brand’s limited-edition luxury furniture and décor during the fair.
I moved through the space with practiced ease, scanning for proportion, texture, and emotional resonance. This was the one place I still felt in control.
I didn’t just see objects as they were—I saw placements and moods. I pointed out pieces to Ritu, shooting off ideas with quiet authority.
“That cocoon swing by the Campana Brothers,” I said, gesturing. “It needs to anchor the entertainment area. Not just a statement, like an invitation.”
Ritu nodded, already visualizing it suspended like a secret waiting to be told. I snapped photos of the dinnerware, noting the interplay of matte and gloss finishes.
“This set,” I murmured, “is perfect for our setting. We’ll pair it with brass cutlery and smoked glassware. It’ll ground the space.”
After the walk-through, we returned to the pavilions at Fiera Milano.
I’d already mapped out the stores—first, those worth trying furniture in, then those to browse for inspiration.
My tote was heavy with swatches, sketches, and annotated floor plans.
Every dimension curated. Every placement imagined.
Structure here felt like a balm—something my own life sorely lacked.
The fair buzzed with curated chaos. Designers, collectors, clients swirled through the halls of Salone del Mobile. I was in my element walking beside Ritu, selecting finishes and furniture for the duplex. I paused often, touching surfaces, flipping tags, murmuring combinations under my breath.
“Velvet for the lounge,” I said. “But not jewel tones. Slate or olive. Let the art do the talking.”
We bumped into friends and colleagues—quick hugs, faster updates—before heading to a lighting installation curated by my friend Vaibhav Sethi.
The space held a quiet, reverent stillness. Sculptural lights hung like suspended poetry—crafted from banana fibre, cork, and handmade paper. Each fixture breathed.
Vaibhav pulled me into a tight hug, lifting me off my feet with surprising ease.
I was far from a small woman. I was curvy yet confident in my own skin, and unapologetically a size-14 woman on my best days, yet Vaibhav lifted me as if I weighed absolutely nothing.
Ritu blinked, caught off guard by our easy, unspoken camaraderie.
“You came,” he said, eyes lighting up, hands still on my waist.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, introducing Ritu.
We walked through the collection—each piece a meditation on light and texture. Vaibhav shared the story behind each one, his voice soft and full of awe. I ran my fingers along the edge of a pendant made from recycled paper pulp and brass mesh.
“This one,” I said, “inspired by the sea. We’ll build a custom version for Ritu’s dining room—lower it, cluster it, let it whisper.”
Ritu fired off inspiring ideas, with animated gestures. We agreed to meet back in Mumbai to finalize designs and commercials. Vaibhav nodded, already sketching possibilities on his iPad.
Then I saw his flicker in my periphery. My chest clenched, and a breath caught in my throat. Everything seemed to slow down. I nudged Ritu.
“That’s him,” I whispered.
“Holy shit!” she nearly screamed.
He turned, and our eyes met. And for a moment, neither of us looked away. My heart hammered a loud, relentless rhythm in my ears, like it wanted out. Then I looked away and ducked behind a light sculpture like a teenager caught ogling her crush.
I felt ridiculous and giddy. Almost exposed.
He was testing out an armchair in the booth across ours.
His hand brushed slowly across the fabric—fingers gliding like they spoke fluent texture.
He sat down, testing its comfort while the sales rep chattered beside him.
He barely listened, utterly immersed as if the chair were telling him a story only he could hear.
“Go talk to him. Give him your suggestions.” Ritu elbowed me. “Do your magic.”
“He doesn’t look like someone who needs my help,” I muttered.
“At least initiate a conversation.”
I shook my head and pulled her away. I didn’t even know the man’s name. And what was I going to say?
Hi. I’m the one who bumped into you, accidentally spilled scalding coffee all over your shirt. Then got caught in your dreamy eyes and drowned in your scent?
Ritu snorted. “You were practically drooling at the sight of him.”
Warmth surged up my neck, heating my cheeks. She wasn’t wrong. That man was sculpture. Perfectly toned, and he smelled divine.
My mind flashed back to the airport—my hands on him, the world suspended. Why was he still in my thoughts? With everything unravelling, did I really need something so magnetic to derail me? I was toeing the edge of dangerous waters.
I brushed it off. I had a home to build, not fantasies to entertain.
As evening settled in, the fair began to wind down. We were exhausted but exhilarated. We’d hit every mark on our list.
I was mid-sentence, laughing at something Ritu said, when I collided headfirst into someone’s back. Not a bump—a full-on headbutt.
“Oh, dammit,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead.
Ritu’s smile held, but her eyes widened, recognition blooming like a slow sunrise. I looked up and froze.
“You again,” he said, voice low, almost amused.
My body stiffened, caught between shock and anticipation.
Did he remember me?
“Mr. Marcello, sorry—the invoice took a little longer than expected,” said a tall woman in a black skirt and blazer, handing him an envelope.
Marcello.
The name sparked like a match in a dark room, and suddenly, everything had edges. It sounded expensive and dangerous. Like something you whisper before you sin.
Marcello.
It suited him too. Sharp syllables, velvet vowels. A name that could ruin you if you let it. It didn’t just sound like a name; it was a warning. A promise. A door I wasn’t sure I should open.
I hadn’t known his name until now. And now I did. And now he felt real. Before I could respond, Ritu tugged my arm.
“Let’s go, Roxy,” she said, voice bright and mischievous.
I offered a dry smile, mouthing I’m sorry—barely audible, barely brave. My heart pounded against my ribs and my cheeks flushed, making me feel like I’d just run a marathon in heels.
Ritu giggled, pulling me into the crowd, disappearing before he could respond. But I felt his gaze linger—like a thread tugging at the hem of my resolve. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to let go.