Chapter 10 - EVELYN ASKED ME WHETHER I WAS WAITING FOR LUCA TO BECOME PERFECT
Evelyn invited me to lunch.
Two years after Bellafonte.
By then, she had built a successful legal practice focused on privacy, family-office governance, and high-wealth custody disputes.
I joked once that Luca had provided excellent market research.
She laughed.
We had become friends in the strangest possible way.
Not best friends.
No sleepovers.
No pretending history was normal.
But when the twins’ school needed help handling press privacy, I called Evelyn before Luca.
That said enough.
We sat at a small restaurant near the river.
She ordered salad.
I ordered pasta.
She looked at my plate.
“Better choice.”
“Why did you invite me?”
“Can’t two women eat?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t.”
She smiled.
Fair.
Then:
“Luca is still in love with you.”
I put down my fork.
“You said you weren’t matchmaking.”
“I’m not.”
“This feels suspiciously similar.”
Evelyn leaned forward.
“I need you to stop using me as a reason not to examine your own feelings.”
I stared.
“What?”
“You think choosing Luca someday would betray me.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
She smiled faintly.
“You overexplain every time his name comes up.”
“I was married to him.”
“So was I.”
There.
I looked away.
Evelyn continued:
“Our marriage ended.”
“Not because you stole him.”
“Not because the twins appeared.”
“Because discovering you and the children forced me to look at things already broken.”
She took a sip of water.
“I had spent years accepting emotional distance as the price of being married to Luca Moretti.”
“That was my decision.”
“I ended it.”
“Also my decision.”
“You don’t owe me lifelong romantic avoidance.”
I almost laughed.
“That phrase is terrible.”
“I bill hourly.”
Then she became serious.
“Do you love him?”
I hated everyone asking questions lately.
“I don’t know.”
“That is usually yes with fear.”
“Attorney?”
“Woman.”
I looked toward the river.
“I love who he was.”
“Before everything.”
“I love parts of who he is now.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes.”
The word came faster than expected.
Evelyn smiled.
“There.”
“That doesn’t mean marriage.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“I don’t know whether I can ever be his wife again.”
“Then don’t.”
Simple.
“But you could have dinner.”
I glared.
She laughed.
“Nia.”
“What?”
“You have spent two years requiring Luca to prove he can accept no.”
“Yes.”
“He has.”
“Yes.”
“At some point, if your answer is maybe, you need to admit it is not no.”
That landed too hard.
I hated her.
Temporarily.
“What if he changes back?”
“He might.”
“What if I become that woman again?”
“You might.”
“What if the children get attached to us being together and it fails?”
“They will survive disappointment if adults behave responsibly.”
She looked at me.
“You are waiting for certainty.”
“You spent years being hurt because Luca demanded certainty from infertility.”
“Don’t make the same mistake with love.”
I stared.
“Therapy?”
“Expensive therapy.”
Of course.
That evening, Luca dropped off the twins.
They were nine now.
Eli ran inside.
Ella followed.
Luca remained on the porch.
“Nia.”
“Yes?”
“Everything okay?”
“Why?”
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
Damn Evelyn.
“Do you want dinner?”
Luca froze.
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“With the kids?”
“No.”
He stopped breathing.
“With me?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
I almost took it back.
Then:
“Is this a trap?”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Luca.”
“Sorry.”
Then he became very serious.
“Date?”
My heart raced.
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
“Okay.”
“Do not say good.”
He laughed.
“I learned.”
Our first date happened four nights later.
Small Italian restaurant.
No Moretti property.
No private dining room.
No staff who knew Luca.
He wore a jacket.
I wore black.
For fifteen minutes, conversation was terrible.
Then Luca said:
“This is worse than negotiating with sovereign wealth funds.”
I laughed.
“Good.”
“There it is.”
We talked.
Not children first.
Us.
What had happened in seven years.
I built a consulting business.
He built companies.
I learned gardening.
He learned nothing useful.
He protested.
“I cook.”
“You own kitchens.”
“Different.”
We laughed.
At the end, Luca walked me to my car.
He did not touch me.
“Can I kiss you?”
My body went still.
The old Luca rarely asked questions before touching me.
Not because he was cruel.
Because marriage had made familiarity automatic.
Now?
Nothing automatic.
“No.”
His expression softened.
“Okay.”
Then I said:
“Ask another time.”
Hope appeared.
Controlled.
“I will.”
Second date.
No kiss.
Third.
I kissed him.
Not because history pulled me.
Because present-day me wanted to.
When we separated, Luca looked stunned.
“You okay?”
he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
I laughed.
He did too.
We dated privately for six months before telling the twins.
Or trying.
Eli caught us holding hands outside my house.
He stared.
Then:
“Finally.”
I nearly dropped Luca’s hand.
“What?”
Ella appeared behind him.
“We had a bet.”
Luca looked horrified.
“About your parents?”
“Yes.”
“Who won?”
Ella raised her hand.
“Me.”
I closed my eyes.
Children were terrible.
Then Eli became serious.
“Are you getting married?”
“No.”
Luca and I answered together.
Good.
“Why not?”
I said:
“Because dating does not automatically mean marriage.”
Luca added:
“And because adults can take time.”
Eli shrugged.
“Okay.”
No fantasy.
No pressure.
That night Luca asked:
“Did that scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
Good.
We kept dating.
Slowly.
No moving in.
No grand proposal.
May you like
No merger of lives because billionaire romances apparently could survive without helicopters.
Who knew?
