Chapter1
For three years, I believed I was the woman at Nico's side.
Then, in front of two families, he went down on one knee and said another woman's name.
I didn't cry or make a scene. I simply left Chicago.
By the time the Cavalieri heir finally tracked me down in Dublin, I had stopped waiting for him.
"Serafina—"
The name slipped out of Nico's mouth, and for a second, even he looked stunned.
He was down on one knee on the terrace of the lakeside estate, an open ring box in his hand.
The August sky had gone a deep, heavy blue, and across the water, the Chicago skyline burned like a red-hot wire.
He stared up at me, lips still parted. It took him two full seconds to finish the sentence.
"...Nora. I mean, Nora."
I stood there, and suddenly it all seemed funny.
Three years.
Every time he said my name, there was that tiny pause first, as if he were swapping one name for another in his head.
I had made so many excuses for him. He was tired. He was nervous. He had too much family business on his mind.
Tonight, he hadn't bothered with the pause. He had simply said the name that had been hiding behind it all along.
I took a step back and let my hand fall to my side.
"Don't, Nico. We're done."
"Nora, wait—"
Before he could finish, the French doors behind him swung open.
Guests from the dinner had heard the commotion and drifted out onto the terrace in twos and threes.
When they saw what was happening, gasps rippled across the lawn.
"Oh my God, Nico's proposing!"
"Serafina! He said Serafina!"
I turned my head.
Serafina Conti stood a few steps away in front of the tall windows, her champagne silk gown glowing in the light from inside.
A row of neatly trimmed yew hedges hid half of me from view. From where the guests stood, Nico, on his knee, was facing her.
Serafina pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. The crowd closed around her at once. Someone laughed and nudged her forward.
Someone else raised a phone. Old Mr. Conti stood at the front of the crowd, not even trying to hide how pleased he was.
A woman in pearls squeezed past me, and champagne sloshed onto my wrist.
"Sweetheart, could you move? You're in the shot."
I moved. Someone's heel pinned my hem, and I bent to tug it free.
By the time I looked up, Serafina had been swept into the center of the terrace.
She stood under the crystal chandelier as if this whole evening had been planned for her.
I stood at the edge, like a guest who had wandered through the wrong door.
Across the crowd, Nico's eyes found mine.
For one second, I thought he would stand up and tell everyone it was a mistake.
But his father, the Don of the Cavalieri family, stood in the doorway with a glass of red wine, watching him in silence.
There wasn't a trace of surprise on his face.
The Conti family had gathered behind Serafina, and several of the family's captains had already raised their glasses.
Everyone was waiting to see what Nico would do.
His jaw tightened.
Then he turned to Serafina and slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her hand.
By the time the applause began, I was already down the terrace steps, past the hedges, on the gravel path.
In the shadow of the hedges stood several men in dark suits.
For three years, every time I came to the estate, they had been there at the edge of my vision. They never drank.
They never spoke. I had always pretended not to see them.
Tonight, their eyes followed me all the way to the front gate.
The lights of the estate fell away behind me, one by one.
I remembered the day, three months ago, when I saw a hand-drawn sketch of the terrace on his study desk.
It was dated August 28, with a navy ring box sitting beside it. I had thought it was for me.
I had thought he'd spent three whole months planning this in secret.
I had pictured it so many times. Him kneeling in front of me, a boat drifting across the lake, the city lit up behind him.
Maybe he would be nervous. Maybe he would stumble over his words. Maybe his hands would shake when he put the ring on my finger.
Whatever happened, I would say yes. Then I would throw myself into his arms and listen to his heartbeat.
Now that picture was in pieces.
I flagged down a taxi at the gate. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
"Where to, ma'am?"
I gave him the address of our apartment downtown.
My phone stayed quiet the whole ride. No missed calls. No messages.
He probably hadn't noticed I was gone. Or he had, and assumed it was like every other time.
I would sulk in a hotel for a couple of nights and then come home on my own.
This time, he was wrong.
I opened my email and scrolled down until I found the message I had been ignoring for five weeks.
A recruiter, on behalf of a port consulting firm in Dublin. The role was regional director.
I had never replied because I wasn't sure I could actually leave.
Now I was sure.
I typed my answer: I accept the position. I can start next Monday.
Then I hit send.
