Chapter Fifteen
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
Iused to think I was too young to be teetering on the edge of insanity, but now I knew better. Here I was, parked outside my boutique, scrolling through Ronan’s Instagram with a mix of hatred and a deep, foolish desire. If it had been a one-time thing, I might not have cared, but four excruciating weeks had passed, and I hated myself for it. It felt like he had cast a spell over me. I’d dated great guys and forgotten them easily, but the one I needed to forget, I couldn’t.
Now, as if some invisible thread kept us bound, there were the gifts. Each one, handpicked, unmistakably from him.
A rare, vintage sewing kit one day, its rose-gold embroidery scissors glinting in the light.
Next, a silk scarf from Paris, the kind I’d dreamed of owning when I first entered fashion school. He knew these things about me, and he remembered. It was like he had stockpiled all the little things I’d wanted over the years, quietly listening and waiting.
Each time, I knew—without a card, without his name, from the choice itself—that they were from him.
But it was the sketchbook that broke me. Handmade, with a leather cover etched with tiny ivy leaves—a symbol we both once loved—and filled with his sketches. Designs for dresses he imagined I’d create, inspired by things I’d mentioned or details he’d noticed over the years. I opened it for the first time and cried, alone in my bedroom, because only Ronan could’ve created something so intimate and sentimental. I could almost hear him say, “One day, these designs will be yours.”
It was unbearable how well he still knew me. When I’d think I’d shaken him off, another package would appear on my doorstep, each one more personal than the last, each one tugging me right back to him.
I gazed out the window, my thoughts drifting back to a simpler time. The sudden reappearance of Ronan in my life had stirred up memories I thought were long buried.
It was a golden afternoon, and we were stretched out on a picnic blanket in the park. The bright colors of the flowers around us matched my excitement as I talked about my latest fashion project. I was explaining how I blended vintage styles with modern trends, my hands moving with each point I made.
“If you add a touch of lace here,” I said, sketching an imaginary design in the air, “it transforms the entire look. It’s like bringing a piece of the past into the present, you know?”
Ronan lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, eyeshalf-closed. I paused, thinking he wasn’t listening, and sighed. “You probably don’t care about any of this, do you?”
He opened one eye and smiled softly. “Of course I care. You light up when you talk about fashion. It’s like watching an artist with a blank canvas.”
My heart fluttered. I looked at him, a mix of surprise and affection in my eyes. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, sitting up and taking my hand. “I may not understand all the details, but I see how passionate you are. That’s what matters to me.”
I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his support. The world appeared to be in complete harmony at the time.
I snapped out of my head, grabbed my black Chanel purse, and walked into the boutique, ready for a dream-come-true day to unfold. As a child fascinated by fashion—staying up late for Fashion Police and devouring fashion books at the library—I never imagined I’d get the chance for a behind-the-scenes interview withVogue Italia.
The magnitude of the opportunity thrilled and unsettled me. Despite my passion and dedication, impostor syndrome whispered doubts, making me question whether I truly belonged among these style icons. Choosing to do my fashion show was a big risk, but I was happy with my decision in hindsight. I went into it blindly, not knowing what the outcome would be, and it has exceeded my expectations.
“Nina!” Francesa exclaimed, ever in high spirits. “You look stunning.”
I shared a warm smile with her before turning to the mirror. Dressed in a custom-made black pantsuit, a Fendi coat, and red Louboutins, I felt confident, every detail carefully chosen.
“Thank you, Fran,” I replied, “Is Inaya here?”
She pointed to the area where Inaya was busy, but what caughtmy eye—and made me run for the first time in years—was her hijab slipping. I rushed over to fix it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I woke up late, rushed down here, and forgot to tighten it. I’ve been trying to get this place ready for your big day.”
“It’s no worries. I know how important it is for you to keep your hair covered, and yes, it’sourbig day.”
She grabbed the sheet of questions, and we went over them. With no media training, I could only hope God would be on my side today.
An hour later, the studio hummed with the controlled chaos only fashion could bring—cameras flashing intermittently and theVoguecrew setting up for my interview. Racks of garments stood like sentinels, displaying my latest collection, a fusion of avant-garde structures and delicate fabrics, along with the most sought-after pieces from the fashion show.
I stood at the center, adjusting the final details of a gown that had consumed me for months. Its clean lines whispered complexity, a reflection of the dichotomy I sought in this season’s work.
