The morning after the gala, I woke up to the soft vibration of my phone on the bedside table. Damon’s side of the bed was still untouched — crisp white sheets, cool pillow, that scent of his cologne fading too quickly.
I reached for the screen, heart skipping.
DAMON: Check your inbox. I left you something.
Sleep still clouded my eyes as I opened the encrypted app. Then I saw it.
A digital file.
A floor plan.
A wedding venue.
Tuscany.
A restored 16th-century villa, hidden in the vineyards of Chianti. Red-tiled rooftops. Marble columns wrapped in wild roses. An infinity aisle that led into the golden hills.
Below it was a short message:
DAMON:
“No press. No crowd. No bullshit.
Just you, me, and the people who never gave up on us.”
I blinked back tears.
No velvet invitations. No
