Chapter 77

Chapter 33
Much to Nico’s delight, Luca had let him devour ice cream even before lunch, his eyes lighting up as he polished off a scoop of strawberry and chocolate, leaving his mouth sticky and hands smudged. Amber, however, wore a thin, exasperated expression, watching them both with narrowed eyes.
“Luca, if you let him fill up on sweets, he won’t touch a bite of lunch,” she said, more to herself than to them, as neither father nor son seemed to register her words.
When they reached the restaurant—a cozy, tavern-style spot bustling with chatter and savory smells—Amber's suspicions were confirmed. Nico leaned back in his chair, sighing dramatically, “I’m too full!” Luc didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Amber glarded at them both. The gleam in Luca’s eyes matched Nico’s, and they exchanged a conspiratorial grin as though they were partners in crime.

"You’re spoiling him!” she scolded, more serious this time, crossing her arms with a look that dared him to disagree.
Luca only shrugged, barely suppressing a smirk. He leaned closer, his tone softer, as if sharing a secret only for her ears. “Come on, Amber, let him enjoy today. Happiness like this won’t come so easily for him soon…” The words trailed off, the latter part only a whisper, one he almost didn’t want her to hear—but she did.


The moment Luca’s words left his mouth, he could see their effect on Amber. Her smile faded, and the warmth in her eyes dulled, her gaze dropping to some point in the distance. It was as if he’d accidentally tugged on a thread that held a lot more weight than he’d anticipated, unraveling something raw that she’d tried to keep tucked away.

*Damn it,* Luca thought, feeling a pang of regret. He’d been so focused on sharing this lighthearted moment with Nico, wanting to let the boy enjoy a carefree day, that he hadn’t thought twice about his words. The reminder of life’s complications hadn’t just hung —it had taken the air from her. He hadn’t meant to bring up anything dark, certainly not the worries they were all carrying.

“Amber…” he murmured softly, reaching for her hand, but she pulled back just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough for him to feel it. He’d wanted this to be a moment of peace, a small escape, not a reminder of all the things weighing on them. He held back an apology, knowing that anything he said now would probably fall flat. Instead, he stayed quiet, hoping she’d come back to the present moment with them.

“Amber, mia passerotta…” Luca’s voice was soft, a note of tenderness woven into the words. He leaned closer, lifting her chin with gentle fingers so she had no choice but to look at him directly. “No one will be sad today—not even you.”

The endearment lingered between them, and she felt herself almost flinch at the sound of it. *Mia passerotta,* he had called her, *my sparrow.* It had been years since she’d heard him say it, but the memories came rushing back. The warmth of his gaze, the softness in his voice, and the way he seemed to see right through her—they pulled her unwillingly back to when things were different, when they were just the two of them in a world that had felt so much smaller, and so much simpler.

Back then, Luca had explained the name to her with a little laugh, telling her that the color of her hair, the shape of her smile reminded him of the sparrows that used to nest around his family home. She’d teased him, called him overly sentimental, but she had secretly loved it. There was a playful sweetness in it, something she hadn’t realized she needed until he’d given it to her.

Those memories were rich with stolen moments—summer afternoons lying together, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm looped around her waist as they lay wrapped in each other’s warmth. They’d stayed like that through countless siestas, whispering stories and secrets, touching as if there were no one else in the world. It hadn’t been enough for them to keep their affection private; they’d been as reckless as two young lovers could be, sneaking around his family’s watchful eyes. She could still remember the thrill of it: stolen kisses behind the towering marble pillars, his hand in hers under the table, the way they’d laugh after pulling off yet another close call.

She swallowed, feeling the weight of those memories. His touch had once felt like home, but now it only reminded her of all they’d lost, of the way he’d failed her when she’d needed him most.
Sometimes, she looked back and struggled to believe that the man she had once adored had never truly loved her at all. It was as if every tender promise, every whispered vow, had been nothing more than a carefully crafted lie, designed to pull her in when he found out she was pregnant. She couldn’t accept it at first; she had clung desperately to the belief that his love had been genuine. But then she’d seen the truth, as clear as day, in how swiftly he returned to his former fiancée, Carlotta, after she left. It was like the love he’d given her had been conditional, easily cast aside.

Luca had been the most romantic, attentive partner she’d ever known—the kind of man who made her feel like the center of his universe, who had been patient and playful with Nico, who always found ways to make her smile. But there was a line she couldn’t cross, a place where she no longer mattered: his family. When it came to them, he would become stubbornly blind, unable to see their cruelty, refusing to defend her or question their unkindness. To them, she was an outsider, someone unworthy of him, and Luca could never bring himself to choose her over them.

Three years ago, when Nico was only a few months old and she could no longer endure the constant scorn from his family, Amber made the painful choice to leave. She hadn’t truly believed, though, that Luca would let her go. She told herself it was a final plea, a desperate attempt to get his attention after so much silence, so much neglect. He had stood by, blind to her pain, while his family criticized and dismissed her, while they looked at her as though she were an intruder in her own marriage. And he had done nothing. She was left to fend for herself against a relentless wave of criticism, trying in vain to hold onto her sense of self.

In her heart, she thought that leaving would open his eyes. She imagined that once he realized she was gone, he would wake up from his indifference, that he would come to his senses and follow her, beg her to come home, promise to shield her from the family’s cruelty. She wanted him to feel the loss, to feel even a fraction of the pain she had been enduring alone. She’d imagined him on a plane, showing up at her door in the States with apologies and promises, with that tender warmth she’d once known.

But looking back, she saw it for what it was: a naive, desperate hope that he would finally choose her, choose their small family, over his family’s expectations. Instead, she had only walked out to find herself truly, heartbreakingly alone.

He hadn’t come. The story should have ended there. But like she said, she was stupid naïve fool, clinging to the hope that he would see sense and return. For a month, she waited, checking her phone for missed calls or messages, hoping against hope. The silence was broken only once, by a single call the night she left. She could still hear his voice, cold and angry, lashing out, accusing her of overreacting, of shaming him, of putting their son through this. She could almost feel the weight of his disdain in each word. Then, there was nothing.

Christmas came and went, the silence growing louder and colder. As New Year’s Eve approached, she thought he might still be hurting, that he just needed time to cool off, to recognize how much he missed her and their son. She had convinced herself that he loved her, that he simply needed to come to his senses. He loved her afterall.

Turns out, he didn’t. And the truth hit her with brutal finality at long last. On January 2nd,. A friend, out of concern, had sent her a photo from an Italian newspaper with a headline splashed across it: *“The Power Couple Back Together? The Nine-Month Affair, Over?”* There was Luca, arm-in-arm with his former fiancée, Carlotta, smiling at some glittering New Year’s Eve party as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

She stared at the image, the story underneath filling in the ugly details. Carlotta, elegant and radiant beside him, looked every inch the woman she’d once been sure she had replaced. Her stomach twisted as she read the speculative words about Luca’s supposed “temporary affair,” casting her entire marriage as a fleeting diversion. Every vow he’d ever made, every promise, every tender look, suddenly felt hollow—a ruse to keep her placated when he learned she was pregnant. She realized, in that awful moment, that he had never intended to love her. She’d been a chapter, a secret he could close when it suited him, and he had moved on without a second glance.

That night, she’d cried until there were no tears left, until every sob had wrung her dry. She let herself empty out every betrayal, every broken promise, purging the hope she’d once held for him. And in the hollow silence that followed, she’d made herself a promise: never again would she cry for Luca. She would not give him that power. And she’d kept that vow.

She hadn’t cried when Luca and Carlotta’s engagement was announced, their photos plastered across Italian society pages, or when Nico, with his small, quivering voice, asked if Daddy would ever visit or if he had a new family now. Each time, she held her ground, wearing her pride like armor. She was resolute.

Now, here was Luca, studying her with that deep, unrelenting gaze as if her eyes held answers to questions he’d just begun to ask himself. But Amber couldn’t bear to meet it. She looked away, needing the small relief that came from averting her gaze, and said quietly, “I’m not that hungry, either.”

Luca didn’t react, only smiled in that unflinching way of his and proceeded to order a feast. When the waiter returned, Luca rattled off a list of dishes long enough to feed a village: wonton soup dumplings, an American cheeseburger, antipasti, and everything in between. The waiter’s eyebrows crept higher with each order, visibly skeptical, but he didn’t question Luca’s requests.

As servers arrived to combine two tables into one, just to fit the plates that would soon arrive, Amber felt her chest tighten with emotions she thought she’d buried. He had done this once before. She’d been six months pregnant and ill with nausea, listless and unable to keep anything down, losing weight when she should have been gaining it. Luca had looked at her back then with that same, unreadable intensity before ordering everything he thought might tempt her: Moroccan rice, Indian naan, Italian gelato—even a Caesar salad from a place across town, which he’d claimed would cure her nausea. He’d ignored every protest, determined to make her eat, sitting beside her until she had no choice but to take a few bites.

Sitting here, Amber felt the weight of that memory collide with her resolve. She could feel it cracking, that ironclad vow she’d held for three years, and a betrayal of tears threatened to surface. She fought it, drawing her breath, but there was a new, raw ache opening up inside her. This man who had once cared so deeply, who had memorized her every quirk, her cravings, her aversions—he had abandoned her in a heartbeat.

She had never hated him more.