The smell of real breakfast—like the kind whispered about in Michelin stars and private kitchens—woke Eliana before her alarm could.
When she padded out of Luca's impossibly sleek guest room, the sun was already spilling across the white marble kitchen. Luca's private chef, a vision in crisp whites and cheekbones, was plating something that looked like it belonged in a Vogue editorial.
Luca, still in sunglasses at 9 a.m., sipped espresso and offered no explanation.
"She's awake," he announced dramatically, setting down his cup. "Chef, serve the queen."
Eliana blinked. "What—"
"You worked your ass off all week," Luca said. "While I was being fabulous and everyone else was busy flying in. You deserve breakfast. Real breakfast. And this," he added, lifting a small velvet bag from beside him, "but we'll get to that later."
She barely had time to sit before a tower of avocado toast, eggs soft as clouds, and strawberries that probably had passports was placed in front of her.
"Oh my god," she muttered. "I think I'm in love."
"With me, clearly," Luca winked.
The others filtered in slowly—Valeria, with her hair already styled and a phone in one hand, murmuring about campaign launches. Renee, wrapped in an oversized robe, yawning and asking if there was peppermint tea. Elias, looking like sin in joggers, immediately stealing a strawberry from her plate.
"Unacceptable," Eliana said, trying to swat him away.
"You love me."
"I fear you."
"Same thing, baby."
They ate. They bantered. And as the food disappeared, Luca clapped his hands.
"Today," he announced, "we shop."
Eliana blinked. "I don't think I can afford to breathe in the stores you go to."
"You're not paying," Valeria said like it was obvious.
Renee nodded. "You'll make us all look better just by existing next to us."
Elias added, "I'm bringing my black card, baby. Someone needs to finance the drama."
They entered the boutique like royalty. No paparazzi. No strangers. Luca's name had ensured complete privacy.
Eliana trailed behind them, overwhelmed but smiling. Everyone scattered like kids in a candy store—Luca was deep in conversation with a stylist about velvet coats; Valeria was testing shades of lipstick on the back of her hand like each one had to sign a contract.
She stood by a case of accessories, just admiring.
Behind her, Luca appeared, holding something small and shiny. "Catch."
She turned just in time to fumble a handbag into her arms—sleek, structured, and unmistakably designer.
"Luca—"
"For your hard work," he said simply. "You made my week possible. You were the spine."
"It's too much—"
"Sweetheart, you're too much. Take the bag."
Valeria glanced over, raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "That's cute."
Moments later, she called one of the stylists. "Do you have something in diamonds? Necklace, maybe? Something soft. She has a heart-shaped face."
"Val—"
"Quiet, darling. You earned it."
Within ten minutes, Eliana had a necklace draped across her collarbone, sparkling like sin. She was dizzy.
Then Renee appeared with a bracelet. "You're not about to wear a diamond necklace and no bracelet, are you? How will the public recover?"
Elias slid in behind them, eyes twinkling. "I was going to buy you a negligee, but Renee threatened violence."
"I will snap your fingers one by one," Renee said.
"Fine, fine," Elias said, holding up a box with another bracelet. "Something tasteful. Still sexy."
She laughed. She wanted to cry. She felt like she was being held in hands that wouldn't let her fall.
But the real undoing came later.
She was perched on a soft velvet bench near the shoes, gently massaging the back of her heel. The pain was faint, but real—blisters forming from days of running around in cheap flats that didn't love her back.
Nicky saw.
He appeared beside her silently, a shoebox in hand.
"These'll be better," he said quietly.
She looked up—and froze.
The shoes were perfect. Low-heeled, soft nude leather, elegant but practical. She stared.
"You didn't have to—"
"You looked like you were hurting," he said.
She swallowed. "Thank you."
He knelt in front of her.
Her breath caught.
He didn't just hand her the shoes. He took one of her feet gently into his hands—warm, confident, careful like he was touching something sacred.
"Let me," he said.
She nodded, trying not to combust.
His fingers grazed the sore spot on her heel, slow, soothing. He was massaging it gently, like he knew exactly what to do. Like he'd done it before.
She didn't mean to stare. Didn't mean to notice the sharp lines of his jaw from this angle, or the way his eyelashes looked darker in this lighting. Didn't mean to flush all the way down her neck.
He looked up at her then—and froze.
Her face was bright red.
His eyes widened. A beat passed.
Then—his ears turned pink.
He coughed. The kind of awkward, caught-some-feelings cough.
"Uh—right. Sorry." He cleared his throat and looked down again, quickly sliding her foot into the shoe. "There. Should fit better."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"I, um," Nicky mumbled, standing way too fast, voice a little rough. "I saw some heels I was looking at. For me. I'll just—yeah."
And with that, he turned and walked away too fast to be casual.
Eliana sat there for a full minute, pulse racing, feet in the softest shoes she'd ever worn, heart somewhere on the floor.