In Love With My Ex's Cousin

CHAPTER 1

The coffee machine in my apartment made the same soft click it always did at 6:40 a.m.

I stood barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, waiting for it to finish, already dressed in the charcoal trousers and cream silk blouse I had laid out the night before. The city outside my windows was still half-asleep. Pale light filtered through the sheer curtains, catching on the edge of the marble counter and the single framed photograph I kept near the sink — Sofia and I on a beach two summers ago, both of us laughing at something I could no longer remember.

I poured a cup of coffee and drank it black, the first sip still too hot. Then I checked the time on my phone.

Six forty-three.

I was early.

I always was when I had a site visit scheduled before nine.

Today it was the Hawthorne penthouse. The clients wanted the entire open-plan living space redesigned before their daughter’s engagement party in six weeks. They had money, strong opinions, and a tendency to change their minds mid-conversation. I had already prepared three different material boards and a quiet strategy for steering them toward the one that would actually work.

I finished the coffee, rinsed the cup, and left it in the sink.

My apartment was quiet in the way only early mornings could be. No television. No music. Just the faint sound of traffic starting to build on the street below and the soft hum of the refrigerator. I liked it that way. It gave me space to think before the day filled itself with other people’s voices.

I slipped on my heels by the door, checked that I had both sets of keys, and stepped outside.

The walk to the office took eleven minutes if I moved at a normal pace. Fifteen if I stopped for another coffee. Today I didn’t stop. The air was cool enough that I didn’t mind the walk, and I preferred arriving with a clear head.

The firm occupied the fourth and fifth floors of a glass building three blocks from the river. Most of the senior designers didn’t come in this early. I liked the quiet floor — the way the light fell across the long white tables, the smell of paper and new fabric samples, the soft click of my heels on the polished concrete.

I set my bag down at my desk, opened my laptop, and pulled up the Hawthorne files one last time.

At 7:52 the elevator chimed.

Sofia appeared first, honey-blonde hair still slightly damp, a large iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other.

“You’re early,” she said, dropping into the chair across from me.

“Site visit at nine.”

She made a face. “The ones who want the black marble everything?”

“The same.”

Sofia took a long sip of her drink. “I still think you should charge them extra for the emotional labor.”

I smiled without looking up from the screen. “I already do. It’s just listed under ‘project management.’”

She laughed, then leaned forward, lowering her voice even though the floor was still empty.

“Did you see the email from Marcus?”

I glanced at her. “Which one?”

“The one that came in at eleven last night. New inquiry. High-priority. He wants you to take it.”

I opened my inbox.

The subject line was short.

New residential project – Moretti

My fingers stilled on the trackpad.

For a second the office felt too quiet.

I clicked the email open.

Marcus’s message was brief and professional. A private client had requested a full interior redesign of a newly acquired property. The client had specifically asked for me by name. Initial meeting requested as soon as possible.

Address and contact details were in the attachment.

I didn’t open it.

Sofia watched my face.

“You went quiet,” she said.

“It’s nothing.”

“Elena.”

I closed the laptop gently.

“It’s a Moretti.”

Sofia’s eyebrows rose. “As in—”

“Yes.”

She sat back in her chair, studying me.

“Do you know which one?”

“No.”

But the name alone was enough to settle heavily in my chest. Three years was a long time. Long enough that I had stopped expecting to see it appear in my inbox.

I stood, gathered the Hawthorne boards, and slid them into my portfolio case.

“I have to go,” I said. “I’ll deal with the email when I get back.”

Sofia didn’t push. She only nodded once, her expression softer than usual.

“Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

I took the elevator down alone.

Outside, the city had fully woken. The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet. I walked the three blocks to the Hawthorne building with the portfolio case heavy against my side and the unopened email sitting in my inbox like a held breath.

I told myself it was just a job.

Clients requested specific designers all the time.

A last name meant nothing until it became a face across a table.

But as I stepped into the marble lobby of the Hawthorne tower and felt the cool air settle against my skin, one thought refused to leave.

Three years ago, a man with dark grey eyes had stood beside me in a crowded ballroom and told me not to drop a glass.

He had watched me walk toward the person who had just broken something I didn’t know how to put back together.

And then both of them had disappeared from my life.

Until a single surname arrived in my inbox at eleven o’clock at night.

I straightened my shoulders, adjusted the weight of the portfolio case, and stepped into the elevator.

Whatever this was, I would handle it the same way I handled everything else.

One room at a time.