Novels by Rethabile Tsoebebe

Natalie’s POVJessica’s apartment was a Pinterest board come to life. Warm tones, fluffy throw blankets, string lights draped across the ceiling like stars trying too hard. She had music playing low—old R&B hits, the kind that made you want to drink wine and talk about your feelings even if you weren’t planning on it.I was curled up on her velvet couch in my favorite leggings, a glass of cabernet in one hand and a bowl of popcorn balanced on my thigh. She was cross-legged on the rug, going through a pile of dating app profiles like she was flipping through job applications.“Why are they all holding fish?” she muttered, disgusted. “What’s with the fish? Is it supposed to impress me?”“Maybe it’s a weird primal thing,” I offered. “Like, ‘I can provide. Here’s a trout.’”Jessica made a face. “I don’t want a trout. I want a man who uses punctuation and has a retirement plan.”“You’re asking for too much.”“I know.” She rolled her eyes, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “Men suck.

Luciano’s POV The whiskey was smooth, but it wasn’t the kind that dulled anything. It sharpened. Lit every truth on fire. We sat in my office, the city buzzing far below, its pulse a steady beat behind the thick glass windows. Jacob leaned back in the leather armchair across from me, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose around his neck like he was trying to look less polished than he actually was. “So,” he said, sipping his drink, “the Tanaka deal’s almost in the bag. We’re at ninety-five percent. They just want to know what the long-term leadership plan looks like.” “Good,” I said, nodding. “We’ll give them stability. Vision. Numbers.” He raised an eyebrow. “And image.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” He gestured with his glass. “You know what I mean, Romano. Don’t act brand-new. They want to see someone settled. Established. They don’t just want a CEO—they want a family man. Someone rooted. A guy with a wife and maybe a couple of cute kids on his phone screen saver.” I laug

Luciono’s POV Natalie’s apartment looked exactly like her brain: chaotic, ambitious, halfway to genius. Boxes were stacked in uneven towers, half-labeled with Sharpie scribbles like “Kitchen? Maybe” and “DO NOT OPEN: Contains Stress.” A rack of designer coats leaned against a wall beside a yoga mat she hadn’t unrolled. The coffee table was buried under fabric swatches, takeout menus, and what I was fairly certain was a glue gun. “Your interior designer must be exhausted,” I said, stepping over a box labeled ‘God Knows.’ She glanced at me from the floor, where she was wrestling with an unopened drawer. “You’re looking at her. She’s also the moving crew, the marketing exec, and the head of logistics. And she’s doing her best.” “You’re also very bad at labeling.” “I prefer mystery.” We spent the next hour digging through the mess—me sorting, her directing like a frazzled general in a war against clutter. There was laughter, swearing, and several arguments over where “decora

Natalie’s POV His assistant stared at me like she was seeing a ghost. “Can I help you?” she asked politely, her fingers pausing on her keyboard. I smiled. “You definitely can. I’m here for Luciano Romano.” Her eyes flicked to the schedule. “Do you have an appointment?” “Nope.” I pulled off my sunglasses. “But tell him Natalie Marques is here, and if he doesn’t come out in the next five seconds, I’m leaving and telling everyone at his gym he cries at Pixar movies.” She blinked. Then laughed—just a little. “Hold on.” She probably imagined his grumpy ass crying for a Pixar movie extremely bizarre and funny. He came of as rude to a lot of people. She picked up the phone and murmured something into it. Then she looked up at me again. “He says… wait, what? Wait, what? He’s coming.” The door to his office burst open so fast I barely had time to breathe. And there he was. Luciono. In a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, brow still furrowed from whatever

Natalie’s POVThe space smelled like old hardwood and possibility.Sunlight poured through the tall front windows, catching the dust dancing in the air like it had something to celebrate. Exposed brick lined the far wall. The ceilings stretched so high I could breathe again. And the back? A perfect blank slate for a design studio—half showroom, half sanctuary.It didn’t take long.Within minutes of stepping inside, I knew.This was it.Not just a storefront. A home.My heels clicked quietly across the floor as I walked the space alone, the realtor having given me a few minutes to “get a feel.” I trailed my fingers over the rough brick and imagined hanging my first designs. Showcasing pieces from collections that hadn’t even been born yet. Late nights, coffee cups, swatches and sketches and music playing loud while we sewed until sunrise.I could already hear the hum of creation. It vibrated in my bones.I reached the front window and glanced outside. People bustled along the sidewalk.

Natalie’s POV The apartment felt louder after he left. Not in sound, but in absence. The echo of his laugh still sat in the hallway. His cologne clung to the blanket I refused to wash. There were two cups in the sink—one black coffee, one half-drunk caramel macchiato—and I couldn’t bring myself to rinse either. I hated this part. The aftermath. When Luciono was here, London felt like a layover. Temporary. Tolerable. But now? Now the quiet felt like concrete, and the air pressed against my chest like homesickness had taken physical form. I sat curled up on the edge of my bed, wearing his hoodie—which he absolutely knew I’d stolen—and stared out at the grey London skyline. It was beautiful, yes. But it wasn’t home. It didn’t smell like Brooklyn after rain. It didn’t hum with the sound of my mother humming along to Spanish ballads. It didn’t feel like Luciono’s ridiculous laughter at 2 a.m. after watching terrible movies. It didn’t feel like me anymore. I grabbed my phone befo