Chapter 2

ALESSANDRE

A FEW HOURS EARLIER…

I took another swig from the whiskey bottle on my coffee table. The table was littered with unopened bills and legal documents I couldn’t bring myself to look at.

With a sigh, I slammed the bottle down on top of one of the envelopes. My head hung low, shame tightening its noose around my neck as I tried my best not to remember everything I’d lost—everything I’d ruined.

Tried not to remember her.

Another swig.

My eyes swept across the dingy apartment I’d been holed up in for the past few days. I hadn’t much of a choice. Being broke and knee-deep in debt would do that to you.

The wallpaper had begun to peel, and no matter how hard I’d scrubbed the first week I moved in, the musty stench refused to leave. It had become part of the place like the silence and regret that was deeply embedded in me.

I took a deep breath, and once again, my mind betrayed me by drifting back to her.

Ophelia Wren.

The only woman who had ever truly owned me, before I tore her heart open with my own hands.

As if summoned by my misery, the door creaked open and in walked Matteo, my best friend. The only person who had stuck with me through this hell storm I called life. But one look at his face told me he wasn’t here for friendly chit-chat especially when his eyes landed on the nearly empty bottle on the table.

“You can’t keep doing this, Alessandre,” he said, snatching the bottle away and setting it somewhere out of my sight. “You need to get up and start networking again.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. Networking? Who the hell would want to work with me now?

“Just drop it, Matteo, and leave,” I didn’t mean it—I never did—but I was exhausted. Tired of feeling useless. Tired of waking up and wishing I hadn’t.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he dropped a sleek back envelope on the table, the initials OW, engraved in fine script on the front.

“An invitation,” he said. “There’s a charity ball tonight and we’re going.”

I picked up the invitation and examined it. As I suspected, it was her ball. I flung the card onto the floor and glare at Matteo.

“No,” I spat. “I’m not going.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Alessandre,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And I wasn’t asking either.”

We started at each in a long, tense silence. This was insane. The whole situation was messed up. Why would he think I’d go to something like that—an event hosted by the very woman I’d spent the last six years trying to avoid?

It’s not like I didn’t know what was going on in her life. Hell, I knew more than I should. Every single achievement she made was etched in my mind like scripture. I lived and breathed her from a distance. But seeing her? Standing in the same room as her and knowing I wouldn’t be able to touch her?

That would destroy me.

Matteo’s expression softened when he saw the turmoil in my eyes.

“You can’t keep beating yourself over her, Ale,” he began gently, sitting on the edge of the table after sweeping aside some of the paperwork. “One day, you two will cross paths and this cat-and-mouse game will have to end.”

“I broke her, Matteo.”

My voice came out as a broken whisper. It felt foreign in my throat. I barely recognized the sound of my own voice.

“But this doesn’t have to be about her,” he replied. “We need to restart. A fresh face if you will. This is the perfect place and time to begin.”

When I didn’t respond, he let out a sigh.

“Just do it for me, buddy. For old times’ sake. Besides, we haven’t been out together in years.”

I knew he wasn’t going to let it go. And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t want to be alone tonight. So I reluctantly agreed.

Two hours later, I stood before a mirror already regretting my decision.

I had to admit, I looked better than I had in years. I’d shaved, gotten a decent haircut and slipped into the suit Matteo had brought. But the man staring at me in the mirror didn’t exactly fit the man on the inside. He still felt like a stranger.

I tore my gaze away from my reflection and walked into the cramped living room where Matteo was waiting.

“Now, that’s the Alessandre I know,” he grinned.

I ignored his statement and kept walking. I didn’t want to admit it—to him or myself— but I’d cleaned up for her. On the off-chance that our path crossed, I wanted her to see me and… remember. Remember how we used to be.

Moments later, we arrived at the venue. The paparazzi swarmed like flies, but somehow, Matteo managed to get us past them. I had to give him credit—he always had a way.

Inside, the hall was packed with the elite, the same people I used to rub shoulders with when I still had something to offer. Being here brought back a rush of memories I wasn’t ready for.

I was watching a group of businessmen across the room when the entire hall fell silent. Everyone’s attention was focused on the grand staircase and when I followed their gaze, the champagne flute in my hand almost slipped through my fingers.

There she was.

My angel.

Draped in gold like the Queen she was, she stood beneath a spotlight that made her glow.

She waved and smiled at the crowd, and I saw the lust in the eyes of the men around me, as well as the envy in the women.

They all wanted her. Or wanted to be her.

And I couldn’t blame them.

Her midnight curls cascaded down her bare back like a waterfall of night, just as I remembered. She hadn’t changed. She was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I was standing close to the staircase, still frozen in place by her beauty, when I heard a sharp gasp.

Without thinking, I surged forward and suddenly, she was in my arms.

Gasps rippled through the hall, but all that blurred in comparison to the feeling that currently consumed me.

She was in my arms. Warm, real and so devastatingly close.

And she’d never felt so right.

Her amber eyes stared into mine, wide and disoriented. And in that moment, I was drowning, falling over again, lost in their fiery depths. The fire I’d sworn I’d buried long ago was reigniting with every second she remained in my embrace.

I didn’t want to let go.

But she pulled away as if my touch burned her, and the look she gave me was nothing short of disgust.

As if remembering where she was, a strained smile took over her features and she turned to the crowd.

“Well, that was close,” she said with a forced laugh, smoothening her gown with both hands—a nervous tick of hers I remembered. The guests chuckled politely and resumed their chatter.

And I?

I did something stupid.

I called her name.

“Ophelia.”

Her name left my mouth in a whisper.

She turned slowly, and the ice in her gaze sliced right through me.

Without a word, she turned and walked away, taking my already shattered heart with her.