Lily let the door click shut behind her with the soft finality of a sigh she couldn’t release.
The apartment was quiet, too quiet. The faint scent of pine from the tiny Christmas tree she’d put up last week lingered in the air, mingling with the cold that had followed her in from the street. She dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl on the console (clink), shrugged off her coat, and hung it slowly, as though the simple act required more strength than she had left.
The flower shop had been busy all day—holiday orders, last-minute apologies wrapped in red roses, brides-to-be dreaming in white peonies. She’d smiled, arranged, advised, trimmed stems until her fingers smelled permanently of sap and eucalyptus. She’d been good at pretending.
But now, alone, the pretense cracked.
She moved into the small kitchen, flicking on only the light above the stove—soft, amber, forgiving. The rest of the apartment stayed in shadow. She didn’t want to see herself too clearly tonight.
A bottle of red stood open on the counter from the night before. She poured a glass, not tasting it yet, just holding the stem between cold fingers as she pulled out ingredients with mechanical care: fresh pasta, a knob of butter, parmesan, a handful of spinach that still carried the chill of the refrigerator.
The water began to heat in the pot, a low rumble like distant thunder.
And then it hit her.
Not gradually. Not gently.
A memory—sharp, merciless.
Lorenzo’s hand at the small of her back on that last night, guiding her through the moonlit garden path toward the villa. His palm warm through the thin silk of her dress, thumb brushing the exposed skin just above the fabric in a way that had made her breath catch. The way he’d looked at her—like she was something rare, something he wanted to ruin and worship in the same breath. The low rasp of his voice against her ear: “Stay with me tonight.”
She had been ready to give him everything.
And he had walked away.
The glass trembled in her hand.
A single tear slipped, hot against her chilled cheek. Then another.
She set the wine down harder than she meant to, the stem ringing against marble.
Fool.
She had given him her best self—open, unguarded, alive in a way she hadn’t been in years. She’d let him see the parts of her she usually kept locked away: the reckless hope, the sharp humor, the quiet hunger for someone who could match her fire without burning her down.
And he had taken one look at all of it… and disappeared.
The water boiled, steam rising in frantic curls.
She dropped the pasta in too hard; it splashed, hissing against the stove. Butter melted in the pan, golden and fragrant, but she barely noticed.
Her chest ached with the weight of it—anger, hurt, humiliation. How could he have held her like she was precious one moment and then vanished the next? How could he have kissed the corner of her mouth, breath warm with whiskey and promise, only to leave her waking alone to cold sheets and silence?
She grated parmesan with short, angry strokes, curls of cheese falling like snow.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She berated herself in whispers, voice cracking.
For believing the way he looked at her meant something permanent.
For letting his touch brand her skin for months afterward.
For still feeling the ghost of his hand on her waist when she closed her eyes.
For wanting, even now, to hear that low voice say her name like a claim.
The tears came faster, silent but relentless, blurring the edges of the kitchen light. She wiped them away with the back of her wrist, smearing salt across her cheek, but they kept falling.
She drained the pasta, steam rising hot against her face, mingling with the tears until she couldn’t tell which burned more.
Plated it simply—butter, parmesan, spinach wilted just enough, a grind of black pepper.
Carried it to the small table by the window.
Sat.
Stared at the plate.
Didn’t eat.
Just sat in the half-dark, wine untouched beside her, letting the ache have its way.
Because some hurts didn’t fade with time.
They deepened.
They waited.
And Lily Valenti, for all her softness and strength, was still waiting too.
For a man who had left without a word.
For the part of herself she’d given him that night.
For the moment when the missing him would finally hurt less than the remembering.
But tonight, in the quiet of her kitchen, with tears drying salt on her cheeks and the faint scent of flowers still clinging to her skin, that moment felt impossibly far away.
So she let herself cry.
Quietly.
Completely.
Until there was nothing left but the slow, relentless burn of wanting someone who had chosen not to stay.
Lily didn’t sleep.
The pasta sat cold and congealed on the plate, fork untouched beside it. She had pushed it away sometime after midnight, the wineglass empty now, its faint red ring staining the bottom like dried blood. The apartment lights were off except for the string of fairy lights draped over the small Christmas tree in the living room—soft white glow flickering against the walls, casting long shadows that danced when the draft from the old windows stirred the branches.
She had moved to the couch hours ago, knees drawn to her chest, wrapped in the oversized knit blanket that still carried the faint trace of her shop—green stems, damp earth, something delicate and fleeting. Her phone lay dark on the coffee table. No messages. No missed calls. Just the date glowing when she tapped the screen: December 31, 2025.
New Year’s Eve.
The city outside was restless—distant horns, laughter spilling from open windows, the low thump of music from parties she hadn’t been invited to. Fireworks cracked sporadically, testing the night, painting brief bursts of color across her ceiling through the half-open blinds.
She should have been out.
With Sofia. With friends. Toasting to fresh starts and forgotten ghosts.
Instead, she was here.
Alone.
Crying again.
Not the dramatic, heaving sobs from earlier. These were quieter. Deeper. The kind that came from a place she couldn’t name, rolling down her cheeks in slow, relentless tracks she didn’t bother to wipe away anymore.
She hated how much it still hurt.
Hated how clearly she could remember the weight of his hand on her hip that night on the island—the way his fingers had splayed possessively, thumb tracing the edge of her dress like he was memorizing the boundary between fabric and skin. The way his breath had ghosted warm against her neck when he’d leaned in, voice rough with want: “You’re making it very hard to be good, Lily.”
She had melted.
Completely.
She’d let him see her undone—hair wild from sea air, lips swollen from stolen almost-kisses, body arching into his touch like it had been waiting years for exactly that.
And he had looked at her like she was everything.
Then gone.
No note. No call. No trace.
Just silence.
Six months of it.
She pressed her face into the blanket, muffling the sound that escaped—half sob, half curse.
Why did it still feel like he was in the room?
Like if she turned fast enough, she’d catch the shadow of him in the doorway—tall, dark, watching her with those unreadable eyes that had made her feel stripped bare long before any clothes came off.
Her skin remembered.
Her body remembered.
The ache between her thighs when she shifted on the couch wasn’t just grief.
It was want.
Still.
After all this time.
She hated herself for it.
Hated the way her breath hitched when she thought of his mouth—how it had hovered over hers, never quite closing the distance, leaving her starving. Hated how she could still feel the phantom drag of his stubble against her throat, the low growl in his chest when she’d pressed closer.
She had given him everything that night—her laughter, her secrets, the parts of her heart she usually guarded like fragile glass.
And he had taken it.
Then left her holding the shards.
The clock on the wall ticked past two a.m.
Fireworks exploded louder now—midnight approaching somewhere across the city. Cheers filtered up from the street below, muffled but joyous.
Lily didn’t move.
She just sat in the dark, blanket pulled tight, tears drying salt on her cheeks.
Waiting for the year to turn.
Waiting for the hurt to dull.
Knowing it wouldn’t.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Because some men didn’t just leave.
They carved themselves into you.
And Lorenzo Moretti had carved deep.
She closed her eyes, breath trembling.
And in the quiet, she whispered his name—just once.
Like a prayer.
Like a curse.
Like the only truth she had left.
Lily didn’t move from the couch as the first pale light of January 1st crept through the blinds, turning the fairy lights on the tree into dull, forgotten stars. Her body felt heavy, as if the tears had left lead in her veins. The blanket was tangled around her legs now, one bare foot exposed to the chill. She hadn’t changed out of her clothes from the night before—soft sweater slipping off one shoulder, leggings clinging to her skin like a second, indifferent layer.
The ache in her chest had shifted again. Deeper. Crueler.
It wasn’t just missing him anymore.
It was shame.
Hot, corrosive shame that rose like bile in her throat.
She curled tighter into herself, arms wrapped around her ribs as if she could hold the pieces together.
How could she have been so naive?
She had let him see her—really see her. Had let him peel back every careful layer until she was bare in ways that went beyond skin. She had offered him her laughter, her secrets, her body trembling with want. She had arched into his touch like a supplicant, breath coming in soft, desperate gasps when his fingers had skimmed the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of where she ached most. She had whispered his name like a plea, hips rolling instinctively against his, feeling the hard, unmistakable proof of his desire pressed against her.
She had believed it meant something.
That the way his eyes had darkened, the way his hand had trembled just slightly against her skin, the way he’d groaned low in his throat when she’d pressed closer—had meant he felt it too.
But he hadn’t.
He had taken what he wanted—what she had so willingly, stupidly offered—and walked away.
No words.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
She pressed her face into the cushion, muffling the fresh wave of tears.
He hadn’t loved her.
He had wanted to fuck her.
That was all.
She had been a conquest. A beautiful distraction on a private island. A soft, willing body in a silk dress who looked at him like he was more than the dangerous man everyone else saw.
And she had let him.
Had practically begged him with every touch, every look, every breathless sound she made when his mouth hovered over hers.
She hated herself for it.
Hated the way her body still responded to the memory—nipples tightening against the soft cotton of her sweater, a slow, treacherous throb between her thighs when she remembered the weight of him pressing her against the villa wall, the drag of his stubble along her throat, the way his hand had spanned her waist like he owned her.
He had taken the best parts of her—her trust, her desire, her hope—and left her with nothing but the taste of humiliation.
She was just another girl to him.
Like the ones in the clubs he probably frequented—beautiful, eager, disposable. Women who knew the rules: give him your body for a night, take the pleasure he offered, and don’t expect more.
But she hadn’t known the rules.
She had thought she was different.
She had thought he saw her.
A sob tore free, raw and ugly.
She curled tighter, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold the broken pieces in.
Fool.
Stupid, desperate fool.
She had let him touch her soul.
And he had only wanted her body.
The pain was a living thing now—clawing at her chest, twisting in her gut, burning low and insidious between her legs.
Because even now, even knowing what he was, even hating him, hating herself—she still wanted him.
Still remembered how it felt to be wanted by him.
Still ached for the moment he would have finally given in—pushed her dress up, slid into her slow and deep, claiming her with that same dark intensity in his eyes until she came apart around him, whispering his name like a prayer.
She hated that most of all.
That the memory of almost having him still felt better than never having him at all.
The first light of the new year crept higher, indifferent.
Lily stayed on the couch, small and shattered in the half-dark.
Blaming herself.
For believing a man like Lorenzo Moretti could ever love her.
For giving him everything.
And getting nothing but silence in return.
Lily didn’t know when the tears stopped.
They simply ran out, leaving her hollowed, eyes burning, throat raw from the silent screams she’d swallowed. The apartment was colder now; the radiator had clicked off sometime in the early hours, and the January chill seeped through the old windows like a living thing, curling around her bare ankles, slipping under the blanket to kiss her skin with frost.
She hadn’t moved from the couch.
Couldn’t.
Every small shift sent fresh pain lancing through her chest, sharp and precise, like a blade twisting in an old wound she’d foolishly believed had scarred over.
It hadn’t.
It was still open.
Bleeding.
She pressed her palm hard against her sternum, as if she could physically hold her heart together, keep it from shattering completely. But the pressure only made her aware of how fast it was beating—racing, frantic, like it was trying to outrun the memories that kept flooding in.
His mouth ghosting over hers that night, never quite claiming, leaving her lips swollen with want.
His hand sliding up her thigh under the table at dinner, hidden from view, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles that made her thighs clench and her breath stutter.
The way he’d pinned her against the villa door with nothing but the weight of his body and the heat in his eyes, voice rough as gravel: “If I kiss you now, I won’t stop.”
She had wanted him not to stop.
Had wanted him to take everything—her mouth, her body, the soft, secret sounds she made when pleasure edged into desperation. She had wanted to feel him lose control, to watch that iron restraint snap and have him inside her, deep and relentless, until she forgot her own name.
She had believed he wanted that too.
Believed the hunger in his touch was more than lust.
Believed the way he said her name—like it hurt him—was love.
But it wasn’t.
It was just desire.
Just a man used to taking what caught his eye.
She had been a pretty thing in a silk dress on a private island.
A soft, willing body who looked at him like he was salvation.
And he had taken the offering—tasted it, teased it, brought her to the edge of surrender—and then walked away without a backward glance.
Because to him, she was disposable.
Just another girl who spread her legs too easily for a dangerous man.
Just another notch.
The shame crashed over her in a wave so violent her body curled tighter, knees to chest, arms wrapped around herself like she could disappear.
She hated him.
God, she hated him.
But she hated herself more.
For believing a man like Lorenzo Moretti could ever love someone like her.
For giving him the power to destroy her with silence.
For still—after everything—feeling the ache low in her belly when she remembered how hard he’d been against her hip, how his breath had fractured when she’d rocked against him.
For knowing that if he walked through her door right now, dark coat dusted with snow, eyes burning with that same hunger, she would still let him ruin her.
Again.
The thought tore a sound from her throat—half sob, half scream—muffled against the cushion.
She was broken.
Completely.
And the worst part—the cruelest, most unbearable part—was that the breaking still felt like his hands on her skin.
Like his mouth.
Like his name branded inside her chest.
She stayed there on the couch as the pale winter dawn crept higher, light turning from gray to cold gold.
Curled small.
Shattered.
Burning with a pain that had no name.
And no end.
