Chapter 45

**G R A C E**

As we step closer to the venue, the soft hum of music and the murmur of laughter fill the air. It’s breathtaking—like one of those open-air weddings you see in movies, with delicate string lights hanging above, glowing golden against the backdrop of the night sky. Everything should feel magical, but the second we walk inside, I feel a shift. A ripple of attention that lands directly on us. On me.

No, not just on me.

On Matt.

Because, of course, it’s Matt. He’s practically magnetic in that tuxedo, drawing every eye in the room, but it’s not just his looks. It’s the way people react to him, like they’re not sure whether to smile or keep their distance. There's respect, but there's also that edge of tension. Wariness. He’s important here—more important than I’d realized. And when I try to instinctively put some space between us, to step away from the weight of all those eyes, his arm tightens around mine. A subtle but clear signal that I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.

I try to focus. I need to find him. The only person I want to see in this whole place.

Alex.

I don’t care about the sea of unfamiliar faces. I’m not even concerned with Sophia, who must be around here somewhere. My mind is fixed on one thing: finding those sharp green eyes.

And then I spot him.

He’s standing several tables away, right in the center of it all, the focal point of the gathering without even trying. Alex, with that casual posture, leaning slightly against one of the standing tables. He’s with Sophia, Carl, Lizzy, and a few others I vaguely remember from the dinner the other night—the dinner where I wore that backless dress that Alex had very clearly not approved of. The memory sends a jolt through me, but I don’t have time to linger on it.

I don’t even have time to decide what to do next because Matt takes control. He steers me forward, his grip firm on my arm, guiding me straight toward Alex’s table.

I’m not ready.

This is all happening too fast. I thought I’d have more time, more space to collect myself before I saw him again. In my head, I’d imagined how it would play out. Alex would look at me—really look at me. He’d take in the red dress, the way it hugs my body, and he’d regret not checking on me sooner. He’d realize…what, exactly? That he’d made a mistake?

No. That makes no sense.

The closer we get to the table, the more my thoughts spiral. This was a mistake. The dress was a mistake. Walking in here with Matt was a huge mistake. Alex won’t care. He won’t feel anything. And worse, I’ll look like an idiot. I’ll look weak for being on the arm of his rival.

My chest tightens. Panic swells in my throat, making it harder to breathe. I need to get out of here. I need to escape before—

“Grace!” Sophia’s voice rings out, cutting through my thoughts.

She’s already spotted me, waving eagerly from the table. “I’ve been waiting for you forever!”

And just like that, all eyes turn to me. The entire table. Everyone. Everyone except Alex.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his phone buzzes, and he lifts it to his ear, answering it with a curt nod before turning around and walking away.

Our eyes meet for the briefest second—a flash of green locking with mine as he pivots to leave. But that’s it. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t acknowledge me beyond that split-second glance. It’s like I’m invisible. Like I never mattered at all.

And I can't stop staring after him, my gaze fixed on his retreating back as he moves further away. My heart sinks into my stomach, cold and heavy. It hits me like a bucket of ice water—painful and humiliating.

I read it all wrong.

All of it.

He doesn’t care. He never did.

Of course, he doesn’t. It was foolish of me to think otherwise, foolish to think I was anything more than a fleeting distraction to him. I was an idiot for wearing this dress, for walking in here with Matt, for even daring to think Alex might feel something.

Suddenly, the room is too loud. The laughter, the music—it’s all overwhelming, pressing in on me from every side. I can’t breathe. The dress feels suffocating, the fabric too tight around my ribs. My throat constricts, and a sharp wave of nausea washes over me.

I want to leave. I want to be anywhere but here. I hate this place. I hate Italy.

I hate him.

But more than anything, I hate how much I still want him to turn around. To look back and see me. To say something.

But he doesn’t. He’s already gone.