“I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Night, Dillon,” I answered softly.
Chapter Five
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
“Signora Moretti, your espresso.”
I looked up to see Francesca, my self-proclaimed barista and one of the best seamstresses to ever exist. Her dark skin was smooth and radiant under the boutique’s golden lighting, and as always, her Fulani braids framed her face and fell over her shoulder with grace.
“Grazie,” I murmured, accepting the cup. The rich aroma of espresso curled into the air as I glanced around Il Vento Elegante, my boutique, my dream made real. Bolts of the finest silk and tulle lined the walls, their luxurious textures catchingthe light in soft waves. Mannequins draped in unfinished masterpieces stood like silent muses, while peonies—soft, fragrant, ever-present—added delicate beauty to the controlled chaos.
I took a sip, the bitterness grounding me as reality spun around me like a whirlwind.
A week.
In one week, I’ll be hosting my first fashion show. Years of sweat, years of being overlooked, and years of proving I belonged in a world that didn’t always make room for women like me.
The boutique hummed with energy. Seamstresses fussed over last-minute adjustments, models practiced their walks, and I oversaw every detail with meticulous care. There was no room for error.
The door chimed.
I glanced up, and there she was. A striking beauty in a flowing red abaya, her hijab wrapped neatly around her face, tablet in hand, eyes sharp with purpose. Inaya Abbas. My best friend and ever-efficient assistant.
“Nina, we need to go over the guest list for the show,” she announced, her eyes scanning the room before settling on me. “As well as this came from Dillon and Mara.”
I looked at the envelope and was pleasantly surprised to find a check for five hundred thousand euros inside, along with a note apologizing for their absence. I understood their commitments with Dillon running a vast empire of his own and Mara expecting her first child.
I nodded, setting my cup down. “Of course, let’s do it, and I will call my cousins later, Aya.”
We moved to the back office, a blend of workshop and refuge, with bolts of fabric stacked high and sketches everywhere. Inaya sat, placing the iPad between us and scrolling through the list ofnames.
“We have confirmations from several key figures in the fashion industry, some celebrities, and quite a few high-profile clients,” she began, her voice brisk and businesslike.
My eyes skimmed the list, noting all the attendees until they landed on it.
Ronan Romano.
The letters blurred as memories surged, unbidden and unwelcome. Five years had passed, but the pain of his name still struck like a dagger.
The man who had been my world, my muse, and ultimately, my heartbreak. Our relationship had ended in a maelstrom of betrayal and shattered dreams, and I had buried those memories deep, or so I thought.
I saw his name everywhere.
The name he made for himself was quite impressive. I remembered everything, and my anger grew because none of it fucking mattered.He ruined me, ruined us.No matter what he was going through, I was there. I wiped his tears and consoled him. I put my whole life on hold to take care of him, and he gave up on me. He gave up on us, and I would never be the same again.
I hated him.
“Nina?” Inaya’s voice brought me back to the present.
I cleared my throat, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Can we remove a name from the list?”
She raised an eyebrow. “What name?”
