Chapter 1: The Final Time He Chose Her

I got my hands on tickets to the World Cup final—the match Matteo wanted more than anything.

I went to find him, buzzing with excitement, only to stop outside the door when I heard one of his friends pleading with him.

“Celeste cleared her entire schedule for this, and she moved heaven and earth for those tickets. You’re taking Chiara instead? That’s a seriously bad look, man.”

Matteo exhaled a cloud of vape smoke, his voice a study in casual indifference.

“It’s no fun with her. Besides, Chiara and I have a tradition. We watch every World Cup final together.”

No fun.

A tradition.

The words were clean, sharp, and they went straight through me.

Twelve years. Three World Cup finals. He’d gone to the first two with Chiara.

I’d brought it up with him more than once. I’d even lost my temper over it.

And every single time, he’d coaxed me into submission.

“Chiara and I grew up together. It’s just habit. Before you, she was always the one with me. Come on, be good. Let this one go. Next time, I promise, it’ll just be you and me.”

I believed him.

I waited four years.

And this time, I still wasn’t his choice.

I glanced down at the tickets in my hand, let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh, and tore them in half. I let the pieces flutter into the trash can.

For twelve years, I had been the one chasing him.

Now, I was done.

…

When Matteo came home, he was carrying Chiara’s white Persian cat.

“Celeste, can you do me a favor and watch Chiara’s cat for a few days?”

Only then did he notice the open suitcase on the bed. His smile vanished.

“Hey. Stop packing for a minute.”

“Chiara’s birthday was last month. Her wish was for me to watch the World Cup final with her.”

“I already promised.”

His voice was calm, but it wasn’t a discussion. It was a statement of fact.

I tucked my birth certificate and Social Security card into the innermost pocket of my suitcase.

My parents had mailed them from Vermont two weeks ago. We were supposed to use them to file for our marriage license.

We were supposed to go to City Hall on the ninth of next month.

Looking at them now, all I could think was that a breakup was a hell of a lot easier than a divorce.

I didn’t look at him. “Four years ago, you promised me that this time, you’d watch it with me.”

“That’s different. Chiara’s my friend. I can’t go back on a promise to her.” His tone sharpened.

I finally met his eyes, feeling almost nothing. “In this little trio of yours, I’m the one who feels like an afterthought.”

Matteo frowned. “Are we doing this again? You’re going to be jealous? Can you just… not?”

“Chiara and I grew up together. How many times do I have to tell you? We’re just friends.”

“We’re getting married next month. You still don’t trust me?”

“Celeste, this is exhausting.” He lifted a hand and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead.

Every time we fought over Chiara, he’d get that same look on his face—the one that said I was being difficult.

“I’m tired, too,” I said. I paused, then added, “If it’s your tradition to watch with Chiara, then you should keep doing that. I didn’t want to go anyway.”

Matteo froze.

When he saw I wasn’t going to fight, the tension visibly drained from his shoulders.

He thought this would end the way it always did—with me giving in.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll bring you back a gift.”

The cat squirmed out of his arms, landed silently on the floor, and trotted over to my suitcase.

Matteo explained, “Chiara’s family is in Europe for the month. My parents can’t stand cat hair in the house.”

“She couldn’t find anyone else on such short notice. Just help her out for a bit.”

It was almost funny. She got to keep my man, and I got to watch her cat.

Just then, Matteo’s phone buzzed.

I knew from the look on his face it was Chiara.

He started toward the study, saying over his shoulder, “The cat won’t stop meowing. It’s probably hungry.”

“Chiara says it only eats cooked whitefish. You should make it some.”

Twelve years.

His tone was effortless, the casual command of a man used to being obeyed.

Before I could answer, he was already in the study, shutting the door behind him.

I finished packing and set my luggage by the door.

My company had given me three days to wrap up my projects.

In three days, I wouldn’t just be leaving this apartment.

I’d be leaving Matteo, too.

As I walked past the study, I could hear him on FaceTime with Chiara.

She was laughing, her voice bright and carefree.