Lily watched Lorenzo disappear through the door, the soft click of it closing behind him echoing in the quiet shop like the final note of a song she never wanted to hear again. The sound reverberated through her chest, a hollow thud that matched the sudden emptiness where her heart had been pounding moments before. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a long second. Her hand still tingled from the slap—hot, stinging, a physical reminder of the line she had finally drawn.
The air felt colder in his absence, the flower scents suddenly cloying, too sweet, pressing in on her like the weight of everything she had just rejected. Her body remembered him too well—the crush of his mouth on hers, demanding and desperate, the way his hand had fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to take more. The hard press of his body against hers, the unmistakable heat of his arousal that had made her thighs clench involuntarily even as anger surged. For one treacherous heartbeat, she had almost given in—almost let him kiss the pain away, almost let his hands slide under her sweater and remind her how good it felt to burn for him.
But she hadn’t.
She had slapped him.
Pushed him away.
And now he was gone.
Again.
The numbness settled over her like a heavy blanket, muting the world. She stood there, back against the counter, palms flat on the cool wood, feeling the faint crush of petals beneath her fingers. Her lips still tingled from his kiss—swollen, sensitive, tasting of him. Her skin burned where his hands had been. Her body ached with the denial, a low, insistent throb between her thighs that shamed her even as it betrayed her.
She wasn’t broken.
She was exhausted.
Exhausted from the endless cycle of hope and hurt, from the way he had made her feel alive and then left her to die slowly in the silence. Exhausted from wanting a man who could kiss her like she was his salvation and then vanish like she was nothing.
The door to the workroom opened softly.
Sofia stepped out, concern etched across her face, eyes searching Lily’s for the damage.
Lily straightened, forcing a breath that didn’t shake.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice steady but distant, like it belonged to someone else. “Really.”
Sofia didn’t buy it—of course she didn’t—but she approached slowly, like Lily was a wounded thing that might bolt.
“You don’t look fine,” Sofia said softly. “You look like you just survived a war.”
Lily’s laugh was brittle, barely there. “I did.”
Sofia hesitated, then reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Lily’s face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” The word was immediate, final. Lily shook her head, stepping away to busy her hands with a stray ribbon on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’m done.”
Sofia sighed, leaning against the counter beside her. She knew that tone—the one Lily used when she was locking everything down, building walls higher than before.
But there was something different tonight. A quiet steel beneath the exhaustion. A finality that hadn’t been there in the months of quiet suffering.
Before Sofia could press, Lily straightened abruptly, wiping her hands on her apron as if brushing off the entire night.
“Let’s go out,” she said, voice laced with forced determination. “I need a drink. Or maybe several.”
Sofia frowned, concern deepening. “Lil… are you sure? It’s late, and you’re—”
“I’m fine,” Lily cut in, sharper this time, turning to face her friend with eyes that still glistened but held fire now. “We’re going out. I want music. Lights. People. Anything but this quiet where I can still feel him on my skin.”
Her voice cracked on the last words, betraying the heat still simmering beneath the resolve—the way her body remembered his mouth, his hands, the way he had kissed her like a man possessed.
Sofia searched her face, then nodded slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go out. But I’m driving.”
Lily managed a small, real smile—the first since he’d walked in.
“Good. Because I plan to forget his name tonight.”
She grabbed her coat, shrugging it on with movements that were too quick, too deliberate.
But as they turned off the lights and locked the door behind them, stepping into the cold night air that smelled of frost and distant possibility, Lily knew the truth.
Forgetting Lorenzo Moretti wasn’t something one night—or one drink—could accomplish.
He was carved into her.
Deep.
Irreversible.
But tonight, she would try anyway.
She was done waiting.
Done hurting.
Done letting him own even a piece of her.
And if her body still burned for him in the dark hours to come… well.
She would burn alone.
Stronger for it.
Free.
The bar was crowded when they arrived, music blaring and people laughing, talking, and dancing. Lily wasted no time ordering a drink, then another, and another, until the buzz from the alcohol began to cloud her thoughts. She laughed louder than usual, making a scene at the bar as she downed shot after shot. It wasn’t her usual style, but tonight, she didn’t care. Tonight, she was determined to forget Lorenzo.
Sofia, standing off to the side, watched her carefully. She’d never seen Lily quite like this before—wild, carefree, as if she was trying to outrun her emotions. It wasn’t long before the attention of the room shifted toward her as she danced on the floor, letting go completely.
But in the corner of the bar, Matteo and Rafael were sitting together, observing the scene. Matteo’s eyes locked on Lily as she laughed and twirled, the music adding fuel to her already erratic behavior. He leaned toward Rafael, a grin playing on his lips.
“Well, well, well. Looks like Lily’s having the time of her life, huh?” Matteo said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Don’t you think it’s a bit much, though? Dancing like that, making a scene? Guess she really needs to forget someone.”
Rafael, who had been nursing his drink quietly, couldn’t help but glance over at Lily. There was something different about her tonight. She wasn’t the shy, reserved girl he remembered. No, tonight, she was a force of nature—free and untamed. And he couldn’t look away.
“She’s hurt,” Rafael said quietly, his voice soft but knowing. “But that’s not the way to deal with it.”
Matteo scoffed, taking another sip of his drink. “Yeah, well, she’s not the first girl to go wild after a breakup. But I’ll admit, it’s entertaining. Who knew she had it in her?”
Rafael frowned, his gaze still fixed on her. He didn’t like the way she was acting—too much, too loud—but at the same time, he understood. People dealt with pain in different ways.
“Doesn’t make it right,” Rafael muttered.
Matteo raised an eyebrow, looking at his friend with a smirk. “Oh, look at you. Always playing the good guy. Are you sure you didn’t catch feelings for her too, huh? Maybe you’re jealous she’s not making a fuss over you instead of Lorenzo?”
Rafael shot him a warning glance. “I don’t have time for games, Matteo.”
But Matteo wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the phone in his hand, and with a mischievous smile, he opened the camera and recorded a video of Lily dancing on the bar, completely unaware of the two men watching her. He zoomed in on her wild movements, capturing the chaos she was causing.
“You know what?” Matteo said, glancing at Rafael. “Let’s send Lorenzo a little reminder of what he’s missing.”
Rafael narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Matteo grinned, tapping the screen of his phone. “I’m talking about this.” He hit ‘send’ and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “Lorenzo needs to see this. If he’s so bent on running from her, maybe this will make him think twice.”
Rafael looked at him, a mixture of confusion and unease in his expression. “You’re really doing this?”
Matteo just shrugged, still grinning. “Why not? He might be the one who walked away, but I’m not done playing yet.”
As the video sent, Rafael felt a pang of discomfort. He didn’t know what the consequences of Matteo’s little stunt would be, but he could already feel the tension building.
Lorenzo didn’t go home right away.
He walked the city instead, coat open to the January bite, letting the cold scour his skin like punishment. The streets were empty, the moonlight harsh and unforgiving, turning every shadow into a reminder of what he had just lost. His cheek still burned from her slap—sharp, precise, deserved. The sting was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, a cold, hollow space where something vital had been carved out.
He replayed it endlessly: the way her body had gone rigid beneath his kiss for that single heartbeat, the way her lips had softened—just for a second—before fury took over. The crack of her palm across his face. The tears in her eyes that hadn’t fallen until after he’d turned away.
He had expected anger.
He hadn’t expected finality.
replayed the kiss: the crush of her lips against his, the soft gasp she’d made when his tongue slid into her mouth, the way her body had arched into him—thighs parting, hips rolling instinctively against the hard length of him—before she had shoved him away. He could still feel her nails digging into his shoulders through his coat, the way her breasts had pressed against his chest, nipples tight even through layers of fabric.
He had almost had her.
Almost taken everything.
And she had slapped him.
Rejected him.
The pain of it was exquisite—sharp, clean, mixed with a desire so violent it scared even him.
He reached his building too soon, the doorman nodding silently as he passed. The private elevator ride was torture—mirrored walls reflecting a man with wild eyes, swollen lips, a red handprint blooming on his cheek like a mark of shame and triumph.
Inside the penthouse, he didn’t turn on the lights.
Just shrugged off his coat, let it fall where it landed, and poured whiskey with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Three fingers. No ice. He drank half in one swallow, the burn grounding him, but not enough.
He paced the dark living room—floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city sprawled below like a conquest he no longer cared about. His reflection stared back: shirt rumpled, hair disheveled from her fingers, eyes black with want and frustration.
He could still smell her—flowers and warm skin clinging to his clothes, his hands.
His cock throbbed, heavy and insistent, straining against his trousers. He didn’t touch himself. Not yet. He let the ache build, let it punish him.
Because he deserved it.
He had kissed her like a starving man.
And she had slapped him.
The memory sent a fresh surge of heat through him—anger and desire twisted so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He wanted to go back.
Wanted to break down her door, push her against the nearest wall, and kiss her until she forgot why she was angry. Wanted to slide his hands under that soft sweater, feel the silk of her skin, the weight of her breasts in his palms, the way her nipples would peak under his tongue. Wanted to drop to his knees, push her thighs apart, taste her until she was sobbing his name—not in rejection, but in surrender.
He wanted to ruin her for anyone else.
And she had said no.
The word echoed in his head, a torment and a challenge.
He drained the whiskey, set the glass down hard enough to crack.
Then he stood at the window, hands in pockets, staring out at the sleeping city.
He was Lorenzo Moretti.
He didn’t beg.
He didn’t chase.
But for her…
For her, he might break every rule he had.
The night stretched on.
The ache didn’t fade.
And in the dark, alone with the taste of her still on his lips and the sting of her slap on his cheek, he made a decision.
He wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.
She thought she could close the door.
But doors could be opened.
And Lorenzo always got what he wanted.
Eventually.
Lorenzo’s phone buzzed, pulling him out of his own thoughts. It buzzed on the table behind him sharp, insistent.
He ignored it at first. Then it buzzed again. And again.
He turned, slow, and picked it up.
He saw a message from Matteo. His heart skipped a beat as he unlocked his phone, only to be greeted by a video of Lily, his Lily, dancing wildly at the bar. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks flushed with alcohol, and she seemed completely lost in the moment, as if the entire world had disappeared around her.
Lorenzo’s eyes widened as he watched her, a sickening feeling rising in his stomach. He hadn’t expected this. She looked… out of control. Unaware. And there was something about the way she moved, the way she laughed, that made him realize just how far gone she was. She wasn’t just having fun; His Lily.
Dancing.
Not the graceful, contained movements he remembered from the island, but something wild, unrestrained. Hair a dark, tousled mess around her flushed face, sweater slipping off one shoulder to reveal the delicate strap of her bra and the smooth curve of skin he had tasted in dreams. Her hips rolled to the beat, slow and sensual, eyes half-closed, lips parted as she laughed—free, abandoned, lost in the moment.
Men watched her.
Of course they did.
She was breathtaking.
But it wasn’t joy in her eyes.
It was escape.
She was drowning.
In music. In alcohol. In the crowd.
Trying to wash him out of her system with sweat and rhythm and the press of strangers.
The guilt hit him hard. A sharp pang in his chest, twisting and suffocating him. He couldn’t just stand by. She had given so much of herself to him, and he had let her down. He had abandoned her, and now, this? He wasn’t sure what hurt more—seeing her like this, or knowing he had caused it.
He didn’t even think twice. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out of his apartment, speeding toward the bar. The weight of what he’d done pressed down on him as he raced through the streets, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. His mind was a storm of guilt and regret, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t let her fall apart like this. He had to be there for her. He had to fix what he had broken.
