ChapterOne
Galeana
The cab rattlesto a stop on the uneven cobblestone driveway, the tires crunching against the stones like they’re grinding up the remnants of my dignity. “Welcome to Costa Serena, signorina,” the driver says with a too-cheerful intonation, as if his words alone could wash away the fact that two days ago, I was left at the altar.
Chase Monaghan, my now ex, didn’t even have the guts to tell me himself. Instead, he sent his poor mother to deliver the message while everyone waited for him to show up. “Sorry, sweetie, he said he can’t do it.” Her voice trembled, her hands clutching mine like I was the one abandoning her. “I . . . I don’t understand. Something about not being emotionally available.” And then she broke down, sobbing like she’d been the one stood up.
I consoled her. Me. The bride. The one who had just been left at the altar because I wasn’t enough, was making sure she was okay. Like Mom used to do when I was hurt, I rubbed her back and murmured soft reassurances.
As if that wasn’t enough, once she was feeling better, I faced two hundred guests. With a forced, brittle smile, I announced there wouldn’t be a wedding. But please, enjoy the reception. The food’s on me.
It’s not like I could get my money back, anyway. Everything was paid for. At least I’d gone with the bronze menu, not the platinum one Chase had insisted on. “Let’s just keep it simple,” I’d said during planning. “Who doesn’t love a good pig in a blanket? In this economy, no one needs a five-course meal for two hundred people.”
That was a lie. Chase could afford it. He could’ve hired a private chef for everyone if he wanted. But I was in charge of the reception. My savings and teacher salary could only afford so much though, so we went with the appetizers and cash bar.
He, on the other hand, had paid for the honeymoon. A lavish, nonrefundable trip to the Amalfi Coast. So I packed my bags, planted myself at the airport for twelve miserable hours, and flew here anyway. If Chase had dared to show up, he must’ve turned around the second he saw me, because I haven’t heard a peep. And honestly? Good.
I’m so mad at him I can’t even see straight. Mad at the cowardice, the selfishness, the sheer audacity of saying it’s over via his poor mother. Couldn’t he at least have had the decency to look me in the eye and say I’m not enough?
The Mediterranean breeze hits me as I step out of the cab, warm and fragrant, like a slap disguised as a caress. Costa Serena—a postcard-perfect slice of paradise on Italy’s Amalfi Coast. It’s all here, just like in the photos: the pristine white walls, the cascade of bougainvillea spilling over wrought-iron balconies, the glittering expanse of blue stretching endlessly into the horizon.
It’s the kind of place where couples come to sip prosecco and stare into each other’s eyes. Meanwhile, I’m standing here solo, dragging my emotional deadweight, and blinking hard against the sting of tears.
The driver pulls my bags from the trunk with a wide grin, his energy grating against the jagged edges of my mood. “¡Benvenuta! Spero che il suo soggiorno sia piacevole,” he chirps, all sunshine and goodwill.
Enjoy your stay? Sure. Because lounging in paradise is obviously the perfect cure for being left in a wedding dress with a three-tiered cake I didn’t even get to enjoy. And damn it if that doesn’t make me even angrier. It was the perfect cake—strawberries and champagne with a raspberry mousse filling on one half, and chocolate cherry with a crunchy choco-mousse filling on the other. Aiden’s invention.
She’s not just my best friend; she’s the only family I have left. She poured her heart into that cake, perfecting every layer, every detail, because she knew how much it meant to me. Thinking about her—about the family I wanted to build with Chase, about all the hopes and plans that crumbled the moment he decided I wasn’t enough—squeezes something deep in my chest.
The thought lingers, heavy and unrelenting, threatening to crack through the fragile wall of anger I’ve built to keep the pain at bay.
I suck in a breath and blink hard, willing the tears to stay put. I won’t fall apart, not in front of a stranger.
Nope. Not here. Not now.
The driver clears his throat politely, breaking the tension and snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. Right. Time to move.
I dig through my purse, my fingers fumbling over receipts, lip balm, and my phone before I finally pull out my wallet and some cash. “Grazie,” I mumble, shoving the bills toward him with what I hope passes for a polite smile.
He beams and offers a cheerful, “Grazie!” before getting into the cab.
As the driver pulls away, I let out a long breath and glance up at the villa. Somewhere beneath the smoldering rage, there’s hurt. Deep, buried, and stubbornly unexamined, but undeniably there. My mother used to say emotions are like storms—you can’t stop them, but you can wait them out.
Right now, though? The storm is anger, and I’m riding it straight toward vindication. If Chase thought he was going to enjoy this trip, he can think again.
I wheel my suitcase toward the entrance. The resort towers over me, all sweeping arches and airy elegance, dripping with the kind of romance I once planned to bask in as a newlywed. Now . . . now I’m just bitter. So fucking angry.
Inside, the lobby is a masterclass in luxury: high ceilings, polished marble floors that gleam under the afternoon sun, and air scented with citrus and jasmine. It’s stunning, and I hate that I notice.
The receptionist looks up from her desk, her smile warm and impossibly bright. “Benvenuta a Costa Serena. May I have your name?”
“Galeana Monroe,” I say, pulling myself up straighter. If I can’t be a glowing newlywed, I’ll at least be dignified.
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, the clacking of her nails unnervingly loud in the otherwise tranquil space. “Ah, you’re in our premium honeymoon suite. A wonderful choice.”
Of course I am. Fucking Chase choosing the honeymoon suite when deep down he was thinking about ditching me. Asshole.
“Actually . . .” I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice polite. “Is there another room available? Something a little less . . . romantic? Something that says, ‘sulking while enjoying the sun’ instead of ‘remember that the fucking groom left you at the altar’?”
