I nodded, allowing myself to be drawn into the present, Alejandro’s hand warm and grounding as we posed. And for a brief moment, I let go of Ronan’s shadow, leaning fully into the here and now.
Flashbulbs illuminated us, freezing the scene in time—a snapshot of elegance and companionship amidst the glittering backdrop of the fashion elite.
Little did I anticipate that our picture would grace the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers, capturing the attention of gossip columnists and social media alike.
As the night progressed, I immersed myself in the festivities, savoring the fleeting moments of joy and connection until I headed home and stripped down, allowing the cold water to cascade down my body.
My hand brushed across an ever-present scar on my stomach that I got when I was little and fell off my mother’s bed and landed right on a broken piece of glass.
That night was one I was truly fearful of, and from which I got those stitches, the scar never fully disappearing. It was one of the reasons I rarely wore revealing clothes or bikinis. I hated the scar. I hated how ugly it made me feel, and as that thought came into my head, I remembered yet another moment with Ronan, one that was so conflicted.
I normally had no problem forgetting people or moving on from things. The circumstances I grew up in showed me that, but he was a fever I couldn’t shake and a deep scar I couldn’t get rid of.
In the steam-filled bathroom of our shower years ago, I stood with Ronan, the warmth of the water enveloping us. The tiled walls echoed with the soothing sound of running water, creating a serene backdrop for our intimate moment.
His touch was gentle and purposeful as he caressed my back, his fingertips tracing the contours of my body with a tender reverence.
I glanced down, feeling the familiar self-consciousness tug at my heart as his gaze settled on the faint scar across my stomach—a relic from a childhood mishap that had left its mark. But instead of averting his eyes or pretending not to notice, he looked at me with an unwavering intensity that sent a flutter through my chest.
“La tua bellezza non ha uguali,23” he murmured, his voice a reassuring whisper against the steamy air. His words soothed my insecurities, washing away any lingering doubts about myworthiness.
I dared to meet his gaze, finding nothing but pure devotion and adoration shining back at me.
His hand moved with deliberate tenderness, tracing the path of the scar with a feather-light touch that sent a tingling sensation through my skin. I held my breath as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the scar with a delicate reverence that took my breath away.
“Ronan… I—” I exhaled, the words caught in my throat. “I hate that you’re seeing it.”
“I don’t hate that I’m seeing it. All parts of you are perfect and beautiful,” he mused, his lips pressing a kiss to my scar.
The sensation was electrifying yet comforting, a paradoxical mix of vulnerability and strength. His kiss on the scar felt like an affirmation that he accepted me wholly, scars and all, without reservation or judgment.
My mind was restored to the present moment, and I hopped out of the shower, rushing to my bedroom as a wave of emotion clung to my chest.
An ache.
A mere wanting I shouldn’t have.
A wanting forhim.
A longing I couldn’t shake.
His smile, his touch, were still etched in my mind despite my efforts to forget.
I collapsed onto my bedroom floor, tears streaming down my face. The emotions I thought I’d buried surged to the surface, overwhelming me.
How could I still feel this way after everything?
He hurt me.
He ruined me.
He broke my heart.
He left me.
Iknewthat.
But why did it still hurt so much?
