Chapter 8 8

Tatiana: Sorry, running late. Long story.

The message flashes across my phone screen, and I already know what that means. Christopher. It always comes back to him. He’s the kind of guy who either causes chaos or brushes off her plans, and Tatiana—God bless her—never lets it slide. A part of me aches to text her back, to tell her she deserves better, to remind her she’s too brilliant to waste time on a man who drains her. But it isn’t my place to play judge or matchmaker because I'm no better.

Me: I’ll be waiting. :)

I tack on a smiley face, lighthearted enough to disguise how I really feel. The truth is, I’m more than eager to see her before she leaves for France. There’s a restless energy in me tonight, something I’d never admit.

I sit at the bar, surrounded by strangers whose laughter spills out like smoke. I’m not alone, not really. The club is a bubble of noise and light, bodies swaying, glasses clinking.

But it follows me everywhere. A hollow ache that persists no matter how perfectly my life looks on paper—the degree, the promising job, the long-term boyfriend who ticks all the right boxes. Even when Luciano's physically beside me, the emptiness remains, a silent scream in a crowded room. My soul is a gaping void, howling for something more, craving a fulfillment I can never name aloud.

Because I know what it craves. A dark, shameful hunger that coils deep within, a fantasy so forbidden it sickens me. Perhaps no one on earth has ever harbored a desire so twisted. It’s fixated on a man I am utterly forbidden to touch, a man whose name I dare not even whisper in the sanctity of my own mind.

Yet, my treacherous heart beats a relentless, silent rhythm for him, forever craving for the one man who could ruin me, and the one ruin I desperately long for.

“What’s with the long face?”

The voice draws me out of the spiral, and I glance up. It’s not a stranger in the shadows or some clingy clubgoer, but the bartender himself. He’s young but not boyish, handsome in that easy, approachable way. His eyes are dark and deep-set, carrying a glimmer of mischief, and when he smiles, two perfect dimples flash.

“My best friend’s heading to the south of France for a month,” I explain, my tone a little heavier than I intend. “I don’t know how I’ll manage without her.”

He winces in sympathy, setting down a row of polished glasses. “That’s tough. She must be important to you.”

“She is,” I murmur. “She’s been my constant for years. Now it’ll just be me, and I’ll have all this free time and nothing to fill it.”

Free time. The phrase tastes bitter. Luciano certainly won’t be the one to fill it. He’s busy tonight—again. He’s always busy. Always absent when I need him, yet his clothes are draped across my chair, his sneakers clutter the hallway, his presence lingering like a shadow that never speaks. Sometimes I wonder if I live with him or just with the trail he leaves behind.

The bartender leans his elbows against the counter, closing the distance between us. His brows rise in invitation. My gaze drifts—unwilling, but unstoppable—to his arms, the curve of his muscles stretching against the snug cotton of his shirt.

“If you’re bored,” he offers lightly, “we’re always looking for extra help around here. You’d be great behind the bar.”

“Oh, really?” My lips tug upward despite myself.

“Yeah.” His grin is playful, maybe even a little daring. “I could use an extra pair of hands. You’d fit right in.” He caps it with a wink.

The warmth that rushes through me is instant and unwelcome. I shouldn’t encourage it. I’m not single. I’m not free to let my eyes linger or wonder how his laughter might sound when it isn’t dulled by music. And yet I do. Maybe it’s because I’ve been starved of attention, of feeling seen, for so long.

“I’d have to check with my boyfriend first,” I murmur, my voice smaller than I mean it to be. The word boyfriend tastes strange on my tongue. His nod is polite, professional, as he moves away to pour another drink for someone farther down the bar.

Tatiana would scold me if she were here, swat my arm and tell me to stop wasting chances. But Tatiana doesn’t understand what it means to build years with someone, to hold onto the idea that all that time, all that effort, has to mean something.

But who am I trying to convince? Her? Him? Myself?

The question lingers like a bruise. I tip my glass back and drain the last of my wine, hoping the sharp burn will wash it away. Instead, it deepens. A weight settles in my chest, heavy with dissatisfaction. Is this my future? Sitting alone in clubs, making excuses for Luciano, pretending patience is the same thing as love? Convincing myself security is enough, even if it feels like settling?

I want more. I just don’t know what “more” looks like. Leaving Luciano? Striking out into a life that terrifies me? Quitting a job I haven’t even started, risking stability for the chance of something truer?

I’ve never been brave. I want to be, but it’s not in my nature. My father raised me to be cautious, to prepare for the worst because the world can turn on you in a heartbeat. After Mom died, he doubled down on that lesson, shaping me into a girl who never leaps without a net. He did his best—I know that. He tried to make me strong in his way. But sometimes I wonder if he built a cage around me instead.

The irritation isn’t at him. It’s at me. At the part of me that still trembles at shadows, that still clings to a relationship already crumbling, that still whispers safety when what I crave is fire.

I don’t realize my jaw is tight until it aches. My pulse stumbles into a gallop, my breath shallow. And in that moment, unbidden, the memory of the other night rises—heat and danger, a look that burned through every wall I built.

It terrifies me.

It thrills me.

And it won’t let me go.

Gianni...