Her smile wavers, but she keeps her composure. “The honeymoon suite is one of our finest accommodations. It has a private balcony, a stunning sea view, champagne service . . . and you’ve already paid for it. Why downgrade?”
Give this woman a raise. She has a point, but mine is more valid.
“As I said, I’d really prefer not to?—”
“Listen, I’m going to be honest. We’re booked solid and can’t accommodate your request,” she interjects smoothly, her tone still polite-ish. “However, we’ll make sure that any extra expenses you incur are covered by us, Ms. Monroe.”
Before I can ask what “extra expenses” might include, she pulls out a spa menu and a glossy brochure of resort tours. “We have a variety of amenities to ensure your stay is unforgettable. Complimentary spa treatments, guided hikes, wine tastings . . . and of course, our sunset boat tour is highly recommended.”
I recall Aiden’s advice: Soak up the sun, enjoy your time there, and we’ll figure out the rest when you’re back. Right. An all-expense-paid vacation with these perks is exactly what a bitter woman like me needs.
Stop calling yourself bitter, Galeana. Angry—with a strong thirst for Chase’s blood—feels like a more accurate description.
“You’re right,” I say, forcing a bright smile that barely conceals my exhaustion. “I’lltake it. Let’s make the most of the remnants of what will never happen.”
Her smile returns, glowing like she just won an award for persistence. “Excellent choice, Ms. Monroe.”
A bellhop materializes with an air of cheerful efficiency, sweeping my suitcase away and chatting as he leads me through the resort. “The suite has the best view of the coast. And the bed—ah, you’ll sleep like a queen.”
I give him a tight smile, nodding mechanically. I wonder if I can somehow will him into silence. A shy, quiet bellhop would be a dream right now.
When he pushes open the double doors to my suite, I stop in my tracks. The room is . . . a lot. Gauzy white curtains frame the sliding doors to a balcony overlooking the sea. Inside, a vase of pink peonies sits on the glass table, next to a tray holding a bottle of chilled champagne with two glasses. And there, on the king-sized bed, are two towel swans surrounded by a heart of rose petals.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter under my breath.
“This is your suite for the week, signorina,” the bellhop announces, clearly expecting a gasp of delight. I nod, tight-lipped, and give him a tip. Then, I wait for him to leave. The second the door closes, I grab one of the swans and toss it on the floor. It flops pathetically, unraveling into a limp towel.
The rose petals stay on the bed, taunting me. I consider throwing those too, but I don’t have the energy. Instead, I kick off my shoes and sink onto the mattress. It’s soft, too soft, like it’s mocking me for being alone.
I stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to cry. “It’s fine,” I say aloud, trying to convince myself. “I’m in Italy. There’s wine. There’s gelato. This is supposed to be a good thing.”
But the bitterness doesn’t listen. It claws its way up, excruciatingly insistent. This wasn’t supposed to be a solo trip. I was supposed to be here withhim. We’d planned it all together—the romantic dinners, the lazy mornings in bed, the stupid couple’s massages.
My throat tightens, and I shoot up from the bed, heading for the balcony. The ocean breeze hits me as I step outside, my hands gripping the cool iron railing. The view is breathtaking, the kind of perfect that should bring comfort. But instead of soothing me, it fucking stings, leaving me feeling even more unsteady.
Below, on the pebble-strewn beach, couples stroll hand in hand, laughing softly as if they’re in a commercial for happiness. My jaw clenches as I watch one man lift his partner off her feet, spinning her in a slow, giddy circle. The sound of their laughter carries upward, light and carefree, and it makes my stomach churn.
“Good for them,” I mutter to the empty air. “Enjoy your picture-perfect romance. I’ll just be up here. Alone. Eating enough tiramisu for two.”
A sharp knock at the door startles me. It’s room service, delivering fresh strawberries, and a charcuterie board. He sets them on the table next to the champagne. It’s all picture perfect. The ideal honeymoon without a groom.
“To me,” I say, raising the still closed bottle of champagne. “To being single. And to this week not sucking as much as it already does.”
It’s just a week, I tell myself. Seven days. I can survive this. Maybe even enjoy it. But as I glance back at the towel laying on the floor, I can’t shake the gnawing ache in my chest.
This was supposed to be the start of something new. Instead, it’s just me, a broken engagement, and fine alcohol. Yet, I can’t bring myself to enjoy this, at least not yet.
And just like Mom always said, I go take a long bath. Water purifies everything. New plan, enjoy this bath, then I’ll get so drunk I won’t remember his name.
Chase fucking who?
ChapterTwo
Ledger
The airin Costa Serena is thick with the scent of saltwater and citrus—a postcard-perfect paradise that makes my skin crawl. This place screams romance, and I’m here for a wedding. If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.
I shift the strap of my duffle bag higher on my shoulder as I step up to the reception desk. The guy behind the counter barely looks old enough to rent a car, with a name tag that says Giorgio and a grin that’s way too enthusiastic for someone stuck behind a desk all day.
