He kissed me again, but my eyes were blurry now, my throat tight.
I pressed my forehead against his, whispering, “Say it in Italian.”
“Sono innamorato di te, Nina Moretti.16”
I smiled teasingly. “Better, and I know you are.”
He leaned back slightly, studying me. “You do?”
I rolled my eyes before cupping his jaw. “Anch’io sono innamorato di te.17”
His mouth crashed onto mine, his hands pulling me closer as if he couldn’t get enough.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was thick with emotion. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
Just like that, the gravity of everything hit me—him being here, buying the store, telling me he loved me, loving him back.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as I buried my face in his neck, my body curling into him.
Ronan held me tighter, his hand threading through my hair as I whispered, “I love you.”
For the first time in a long time, I felt safe.
Chapter Thirteen
NINA
Presemt Day
ITALY
The days after my debut fashion show came quickly, andsuccesswould be an understatement. Every magazine feature showcasing my designs felt like another dream realized. Vogue was planning a behind-the-scenes feature on the making of the gowns, which—let’s be real—was a dream come true for any designer.
Eighteen-year-old Nina would be proud of twenty-nine-year-old Nina.
There was no shortage of praise, of accolades, of messages from people who’d never noticed me before. But despite allthe external validation, I felt adrift. Like I was floating above it all, too detached to fully grasp the magnitude of what was happening around me.
And then, he showed up.
Ronan.
Right when I thought I was finally finding my stride, his unexpected appearance had shaken me to the core.
When I heard him speak again, memories flooded back so fast and so forcefully that it felt as though no time had passed at all. The familiar weight of his voice. The way it stirred something deep inside of me, something I thought I’d buried.
“I hate you,” I had told him, the words heavy with resentment. But as I replayed our encounter in my mind, I realized that hate was too simple a word.
I told him I didn’t care. I told him everything he said wouldn’t change what he’d done, what he’d left me with. But the words still looped in my head, hollowing me out from the inside.
Christmas eight years ago. The dress.
As if he’d ever cared enough to remember, to hold on to a single moment the way I had. But, the way he looked at me… those eyes filled with a desperation I wanted to believe wasn’t real. He’d said he’d wait as long as it took, and the worst part—the part that tore at me now—was that I knew he would. It was easy for him. Waiting was simple.
“I remember everything,” he’d said.
God, why did he have to say that? Why did he have to dredge up a memory I’d buried so deeply, a night I’d once thought was the start of something magical, something lasting? The way I’d lit up when I saw the model in my design… I believed him then. Believed that he saw me, really saw me.
After all, he did that night. He made my dreams come true, even if for a moment. Even if it was only for us to see.
