Chapter 7

• Chapter Seven
• Serena POV
• I was rinsing out my plate when Lidia appeared beside me, practically elbowing me out of the way with a giant Tupperware container of sauce.
• “Here,” she said, pressing it into my hands like it was a newborn. “And don’t you dare say no.”
• I blinked. “I mean, I appreciate it, but you know I’m back next Sunday. You’re stuck with me.”
• She gave me that look, the one that usually means I’ve insulted her gravy or dared to mention using garlic powder.
• Then came container number two, meatballs, sausage, enough to feed a small army, or just me on a bad week.
• “What is happening?” I asked, eyes darting between the treasure in my arms and the smug look on my dad’s face.
• Louis sauntered into the kitchen like he owned the joint, which he didn’t, but let’s be real, he kind of did, and wrapped an arm around Lidia’s shoulders. His other hand extended out in front of her, palm up like he was waiting for communion.
• She rolled her eyes, muttered something about “maldito viejo,” and reached into her apron pocket. Out came a crumpled five-dollar bill, which she slapped into his waiting hand with the grace of a woman who knew she was about to hear I told you so.
• “Okay, someone better start talking,” I said, shifting the weight of the Sunday leftovers.
• Louis grinned like a game show host. “I bet Lidia five bucks you’d forget we’re going to Italy.”
• My mouth dropped. “Wait, what?”
• “You totally forgot,” Lidia said, smug now. “I told him you’d remember. I gave you the flyer. With the itinerary.”
• I cringed. “Shit. I did forget.”
• Louis held the five in both hands and tugged dramatically. “And you came through, sweetheart. Thanks for not disappointing your old man.”
• They both laughed.
• I just shook my head, caught between embarrassment and love.
• Italy. Right. Ten days of wine, art, and probably Lidia fighting with a Roman taxi driver in full Staten Island Italian.
• I balanced the bag of food with one arm and wrapped the other around both of them, pulling them in tight. Lidia shoved that unforgiving Bundt right along in there with everything else. It’s my problem now.
• “Bring me back something tacky,” I said. “Preferably glittery and questionably legal.”
• Lidia smirked. “How do you feel about knockoff Versace with a side of sacrilege?”
• “Perfect.”
• My dad walked me to the door, pulling a folded twenty from his wallet like it was a ritual. “For the cab ride home.”
• I smiled as I took it, knowing full well I’d be taking a bus and a train like always.
• There was something beautiful in how he never quite adjusted to how capable I’d become.
• That he still wanted to take care of me, even if it was with twenty bucks and half a loaf of Italian bread wrapped in foil.
• I kissed his cheek and stepped into the chill of the hallway.
• Only a bus, a train, and an hour and a half back to Brooklyn.
• But I didn’t mind.
• Because my heart was full.
• My bag was heavier.
• And for a few hours, I felt like I still had a home.
• ***
• Julian POV
• The text from Madison came in just as I was cleaning up the last of the kitchen mess.
• Madison:
• Staying at my parents tonight. Mom needs help planning the charity brunch. I left a list on the counter—don’t forget the florist needs confirmation tomorrow.
• I didn’t read the rest.
• Didn’t need to.
• I dropped the phone onto the counter, a slow grin curling at the edges of my mouth.
• Perfect.
• That meant I could leave.
• No schedule to fake.
• No curated couple’s dinner.
• No tension over me “not being present.”
• I fired off a quick response:
• Me:
• Heading back to the city. See you tomorrow.
• No kiss emoji. No fake warmth. Just the truth.
• Then I texted Rosalie.
• Me:
• Thanks again for everything. I’m sorry about the mess—there’s lunch in the fridge for you. Your name’s on it. Hope you get to enjoy it warm this time.
• I could practically feel her eye roll.
• One day, she’s going to slap me upside the head with a ladle just like Lidia used to. And honestly? I deserve it.
• Those were the days.
• Back when everything was simpler.
• Back when meals meant something.
• Back when I was someone.
• I packed fast. Left the Hamptons behind without a glance in the rearview.
• Lamborghini stays here. It’s time for the beast. The Bentley purred to life beneath me—sleek, black, absurdly smooth. Another symbol. Another mask.
• Two hours later, I was gliding down 57th Street, the skyline finally peeling open around me like a hug.
• Manhattan.
• Real life.
• Real people.
• Buildings that breathe energy and ambition through their concrete bones.
• My penthouse overlooks Central Park. I paid out the ass for the view, and I’d do it again.
• Because this?
• This is mine.
• Not inherited.
• Not suggested by a girlfriend with a designer addiction and a thirst for appearances.
• This is where the real work happens.
• The real me lives here.
• I step inside, and the silence wraps around me like an old friend.
• Everything’s just how I left it.
• Sleek. Dark. Grounded.
• No frills. No sprawling closets. No fucking waterfall feature in the foyer.
• I shed the t-shirt and jeans and threw on the armor. Tailored black slacks, crisp white shirt, the watch that says I don’t have to speak to own the room.
• My uniform of wealth.
• Of power.
• Of control.
• I look like the man the world thinks I am.
• But inside?
• All I feel is the pull.
• The ache.
• Because I’m back in the city.
• Back in the place where she once said I belonged more than anyone she’d ever met.
• And even surrounded by glass and steel,
• I still hear her voice.
• Still see her face.
• And still know the one person who made this city feel like home…isn’t here.
• ***
• Serena POV
• The gravy is put away.
• The Bundt cake…still untouched.
• And my body is sinking into the sanctuary of my bed, wrapped in fleece sheets and silence, the kind that only comes after a long day filled with too much memory.
• Brooklyn hums outside my window.
• But inside, my world is still.
• Until it’s not.
• Until I’m not.
• My dream starts in pieces.
• A dim hallway. Bare feet against wood floors. Cool air on bare skin.
• My body is warm, aching in a way I haven’t felt in years.
• Not alone, at least.
• A hand trails down my spine. Slow. Possessive. Familiar.
• And then he’s there.
• Julian.
• Back in that goddamn Bronx apartment. Shirtless. Smirking. Tattooed shadows on golden skin. That maddening jawline, that look in his eyes like he owns every inch of me and always has.
• He says my name like a curse and a confession.
• “Serena.”
• I back into him. His cock pressing into my back. His hands on my hips. His mouth at my neck, dragging open-mouthed kisses that feel like fire and apology. Nibbling, sucking, licking. I can feel the heat rising in my core.
• My breath hitches.
• “I hate you,” I whisper.
• “Liar,” he murmurs against my throat.
• And then it all blurs. Heat and friction, lips and hands, and desperate, tangled need.
• He pushes me gently against the kitchen counter, the same one we used to cook on, fight on, fuck on. My dress is hiked up, his hands are everywhere, gripping, guiding, worshipping. He kneels before me. Lifting my leg to his shoulder.
• His mouth finds the sensitive skin behind my knee, the curve of my waist, the soft underside of my breast.
• He kisses like he’s starving.
• Like he’s remembering.
• Like he’s trying to earn his way back in.
• My head falls back. I’m trembling.
• “Don’t stop,” I gasp.
• He doesn’t.
• Not when he lifts me onto the counter.
• Not when his fingers push my panties to the side and slide between my folds, teasing, knowing.
• Not when he finally pushes one finger inside, slow at first, then deeper, harder. Not when his thumb gently draws circles around my clit. The other hand, pulling me tightly against him.
• I cry out.
• He groans against my mouth.
• Everything is need.
• Everything is him.
• And I fall.
• Hard.
• Breathless.
• All-consuming.
• “Julian,” I moan, hands fisting in his hair, body arching as the orgasm rips through me like a goddamn storm.
• And just before the dream breaks, just before I can say the thing I shouldn’t….