The Romano Bride

Chapter 17

ISABELLA

I needed to get out of the penthouse.

The walls felt too close, the silence too loud, and every corner reminded me of Adrian not coming home. I couldn’t sit in that emptiness any longer.

“Mara,” I said as I stepped back into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower, “can you make a reservation for me at Hotel Valente? Two rooms. Tonight.”

She nodded without hesitation. “Right away, Miss.”

While she stepped aside to make the call, I dialed Lena.

She answered instantly. “Bella? Please tell me you’re calling with good news. I’m one spreadsheet away from losing my mind.”

I smiled despite everything. “Pack a bag. We’re going to Hotel Valente.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a delighted scream.

“YES! Oh my God, yes! I need this. I need sun, alcohol, and absolutely zero responsibility.”

Her enthusiasm warmed something in my chest. “I figured you could use a break.”

“You’re saving my life,” she said dramatically. “And I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway. Work stuff.”

“What kind of work stuff?”

She hesitated. “I love the restaurant, but… it’s not where my heart is. I want something more stable. Something that actually uses my degree. I’m thinking about applying to the museum. Finance department.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Lena, that’s perfect for you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

She exhaled, relieved. “I just needed someone to say it.”

“You have me,” I said softly.

Before she could respond, Mara returned.

“Miss, your reservation is confirmed. The rooftop area has been reserved exclusively for you and your guest.”

I mouthed thank you.

Lena squealed through the phone. “Exclusive rooftop? Isabella, are we royalty now?”

“Apparently.”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour,” she said.

***

Hotel Valente was stunning.

Tall glass windows, warm lighting, and a lobby that smelled faintly of jasmine and polished marble. It felt like stepping into a different world — one where nothing hurt and everything was soft around the edges.

Lena and I took the private elevator to the rooftop. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in gold and rose. The entire space was empty, just for us — a private bar, plush lounge chairs, and a pool reflecting the colors of the sky.

“This is heaven,” Lena sighed, dropping onto a chair. “Actual heaven.”

I took a sip of the drink the bartender brought us — something cold, sweet, and strong. “It’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” she scoffed. “Bella, this is where rich people come to forget their problems.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my phone rang.

My heart lurched.

Adrian.

Lena’s eyes widened. “Ohhh. Drama.”

I stepped away, pulse quickening, and answered. “Hello?”

A breath.

Then his voice — low, rough, familiar.

“Isabella.”

My stomach tightened.

“I—” he started, then paused. “I wanted to check on you.”

I swallowed. “You could’ve come home.”

A quiet exhale. “I know.”

The wind brushed my skin, cool against the heat rising in my chest.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Out,” I said, too quickly.

Another pause. Something unspoken hung between us.

“I didn’t mean to—”

Static crackled.

Then the line went dead.

I stared at my phone. “What…?”

Lena appeared beside me, sipping her drink. “Did he just hang up on you?”

“I think the call dropped,” I said slowly.

“Sure it did.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Lover’s quarrel?”

I nearly choked. “No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburned.”

“It’s sunset.”

I groaned. “Lena, please.”

She laughed, warm and teasing. “You two are adorable. I always admire the fire between you two. Keep the love burning.”

I shook my head, trying to steady my heartbeat. “We’re not in love—”

“Right,” she said, smirking. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

I rolled my eyes, but the truth pressed against my ribs, impossible to ignore.

***

Dinner was perfect — warm lights, soft music, the kind of food that made you forget the world for a moment. And the night swim afterward was even better. The rooftop pool glowed like liquid silver under the moon, and Lena floated lazily beside me, humming some song she probably made up on the spot.

By the time we got out, she was swaying on her feet.

“I’m done,” she groaned, wrapping herself in a towel. “Stick a fork in me. I’m cooked.”

I laughed. “Go to bed. I’ll stay out here a little longer.”

She kissed my cheek, muttered something about needing twelve hours of sleep.

Lena barely made it to her room before collapsing face‑first onto the bed. I laughed, tucked her in, and slipped back out to the rooftop.

The night was too perfect to waste — warm breeze, soft city lights, the pool shimmering like a dream. I curled up on a lounge chair, wrapped in a towel, and let the last of my drink lull me into a hazy, pleasant fog.

I must have drifted off.

Because the next thing I felt was warmth.

A shift in the air.

A presence settling beside me.

A familiar gravity that made my breath catch even before I opened my eyes.

I didn’t need to look.

“Adrian…” I murmured, half‑asleep, half‑dreaming.

He didn’t speak, but I felt him — the quiet steadiness of him, the way he always carried heat like a second skin. I leaned toward him instinctively, my shoulder brushing his arm.

He exhaled softly, like he’d been holding his breath.

I blinked my eyes open, vision blurry, head heavy. “You didn’t come home,” I mumbled, pointing an accusing finger at him even though it wobbled. “You… you just left me. Again.”

His brows drew together. “Isabella—”

“No,” I said, sitting up straighter, though the world tilted a little. “No. You listen. I was upset. And you were upset. And when two people are upset, they’re supposed to—” I waved my hand in a vague circle. “—talk. Or yell. Or throw pillows. Or something.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Throw pillows?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Pillows are very effective communication tools.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he said gently.

“And you didn’t come home,” I repeated, softer this time. “You always have to come home.”

His expression shifted — something warm, something pained. “I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You made it worse by not coming back,” I said, poking his chest. “Husband and wife—” I stopped, cheeks warming. “People. People who are… something… they talk things out. They don’t run away.”

He went still.

Completely still.

I didn’t notice. I was too busy lecturing him with the confidence of someone who had definitely had too much to drink.

“You can’t just disappear,” I said, leaning closer, my head resting against his shoulder. “You can’t leave me alone with my thoughts. They’re loud. And annoying. And they make me feel things.”

His hand lifted — hesitant, gentle — and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “What kind of things?”

“Guilty things,” I whispered. “Sad things. Angry things. Missing‑you things.”

His breath hitched.

I didn’t notice that either.

I was too busy rambling. “You should’ve come home. Even if we were mad. Even if we didn’t talk. You should always come home.”

He swallowed hard. “Isabella…”

“Because that’s what people do,” I continued, eyes fluttering shut again. “They come home. They show up. They don’t leave the other person alone in a big, cold penthouse with too many pillows and too many thoughts.” I was definitely repeating myself. Too drunk to even stop myself from talking.

He let out a slow, shaky breath.

I felt his hand settle lightly on my back — steady, warm, grounding. “I’m here now.”

“You’re late,” I muttered, burrowing closer.

“I know.”

“You owe me,” I added, voice thick with sleep.

“What do I owe you?”

“Presence,” I said, as if it were obvious. “And… and not running away. And maybe breakfast. And maybe…” My voice trailed off as sleep tugged at me again. “Maybe just… stay.”

His hand stilled.

Then, slowly, he exhaled — a sound that felt like surrender.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered.

I smiled against his shoulder, drifting back into sleep, comforted by the warmth of him, the steadiness of him, the quiet promise in his voice.

***

The first thing I felt was pain.

A throbbing, merciless pounding behind my eyes that made me groan and bury my face deeper into the pillow. My mouth was dry, my limbs heavy, and my stomach rolled like it was punishing me for every drink I’d had last night. How many did I have?

The second thing I felt was… cold.

A breeze brushed across my bare shoulder, and I shivered, instinctively pulling the sheet tighter around me. The fabric was soft, crisp, unfamiliar — hotel linen, not my own.

Right.

Hotel Valente.

Rooftop.

Lena.

Drinks.

Adrian—

My eyes snapped open.

The room spun for a moment before settling into focus. Soft morning light filtered through sheer curtains, painting the suite in pale gold. My head pounded harder as I pushed myself up on my elbows, the white sheet slipping dangerously low before I yanked it back up.

I was naked.

Completely naked under the sheet!

“What the—”

My voice cracked, and I winced at the sound.

Then I felt it.

Warmth beside me.

Slowly — painfully slowly — I turned my head.

Adrian lay on his back, one arm draped over his stomach, the other resting near the edge of the mattress. His hair was slightly mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and he was wearing a plain white shirt and dark pajama pants.

Fully clothed.

Breathing evenly, like he’d been asleep for hours.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Adrian?” I whispered, barely audible.

He didn’t move.

I swallowed hard, gripping the sheet tighter, my mind racing through fragments of last night — the rooftop, the warmth of him beside me, my rambling, my exhaustion, the way I’d leaned into him like he was the only steady thing in the world.

But this?

Waking up like this?

My pulse thundered in my ears.

I shifted slightly, and the mattress dipped just enough that he stirred — a soft inhale, a faint tightening of his jaw, his lashes fluttering like he was on the edge of waking.

Panic shot through me.

“Adrian,” I whispered again, this time sharper, breathless.

His eyes opened.

Dark.

Clear.

Focused entirely on me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then his gaze dropped — just once — to the sheet clutched against my chest.

His jaw flexed.

And he said, voice low and unreadable:

“Good morning, Isabella.”

My stomach dropped.

Because I had no idea what happened last night.

And the look in his eyes told me he did.