Chapter 3 - The Man From My Past
Ethan had always been handsome in a way that photographs loved.
At thirty-one, he was still blond, polished, and effortlessly charming.
Four years earlier, I had mistaken charm for character.
“Ethan,” I said.
“You look incredible.”
His gaze remained on me too long.
Salvatore noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“This is Salvatore.”
“I know who he is.”
Ethan offered his hand.
“Ethan Cole.”
Salvatore looked at it.
Then shook it.
“Salvatore Constantino.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I imagine so.”
Two civilized sentences.
Enough testosterone to power Manhattan.
I touched Salvatore’s arm.
“Could you give us a minute?”
“No.”
“Salvatore.”
His eyes shifted to mine.
I gave him the look.
The one he had learned meant do not become a terrifying billionaire crime patriarch in public.
His jaw tightened.
Then he kissed my temple.
“One minute.”
He walked away.
Ethan watched him go.
“That’s who you’re marrying?”
“Yes.”
“He could be your father.”
I folded my arms.
“And you could still be my fiancé if you hadn’t slept with my roommate.”
His smile vanished.
There it was.
History.
Ethan and I had met in college.
We became engaged at twenty-two.
At twenty-three, I found him in our apartment with Madison.
He called it a mistake.
I called it Tuesday and moved out Wednesday.
“I was twenty-four,” he said.
“You knew how pants worked at twenty-four.”
“Lily—”
“What do you want?”
His face softened.
“I heard about your mom.”
“She’s better.”
“I’m glad.”
For a moment, I saw the boy I had loved.
Then he ruined it.
“Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Marrying him.”
I stared.
“You think I’m marrying Salvatore for money?”
“You were drowning in debt. Suddenly the debt disappears and you’re engaged to a billionaire.”
Across the room, Salvatore stood speaking with a senator and pretending not to watch us.
He was terrible at pretending.
“I love him.”
Ethan laughed.
Salvatore’s head turned.
Bad decision, Ethan.
“You love a sixty-five-year-old mobster?”
I stepped closer.
“More than I ever loved you.”
That stopped him.
Unfortunately, Salvatore heard it too.
I saw the faintest satisfaction enter his expression.
Ethan swallowed.
“Fine.”
He reached into his jacket.
Salvatore’s security immediately moved.
Ethan froze.
“It’s an invitation.”
He removed an envelope.
“I’m opening a hotel in Manhattan. I wanted you to come.”
“No.”
“Lily—”
“She said no.”
Salvatore had crossed the room.
I hadn't heard him approach.
Ethan looked at him.
“You always answer for her?”
Salvatore’s expression went cold.
“No. But when someone ignores my wife after she answers for herself, I occasionally repeat things.”
“Future wife.”
Salvatore smiled without warmth.
“Temporarily.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
“That worries me.”
Later, in the car, Salvatore said nothing.
Five minutes.
Ten.
I finally looked over.
“Are you sulking?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“What do billionaires call it?”
“Strategic silence.”
I laughed.
He didn't.
“Salvatore.”
“He touched your arm.”
“Oh my God.”
“Twice.”
“You counted?”
“I count everything.”
I shifted closer.
“Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
The admission disarmed me.
Not anger.
Not possession.
Just honesty.
“I disliked the way he looked at you.”
“He’s my past.”
“He wants to become your future.”
“He can want whatever he likes.”
Salvatore stared through the window.
I took his hand.
“You know what the difference is between you and Ethan?”
“Approximately three billion dollars?”
I burst out laughing.
Salvatore finally smiled.
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“Ethan always needed me to prove I loved him. You made me feel safe enough to choose you without proving anything.”
His expression changed.
I kissed his cheek.
“And for the record, the jealous-old-man thing is kind of adorable.”
“Old?”
“That was the word you focused on?”
“Entirely.”
The tension broke.
Or I thought it had.
Two days later, Ethan sent flowers.
Salvatore had them delivered to a retirement home.
The next day Ethan sent chocolates.
Salvatore gave them to his security team.
Then came a handwritten letter.
That one Salvatore placed unopened beside my breakfast plate.
“You didn't read it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it is addressed to you.”
That was the moment I understood the difference between jealousy and control.
Salvatore could have made Ethan disappear from Manhattan.
Possibly from Earth.
Instead, he let me choose.
I opened the letter.
Ethan apologized.
Not just for cheating.
For everything.
He wrote that losing me had become the great regret of his life.
At the bottom was one final sentence.
If any part of you still remembers what we were, meet me once before you marry him.
I folded it.
Salvatore drank his coffee.
“Well?”
“I’m meeting him.”
The cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
Silence.
Dangerous silence.
“Why?”
“To close the door properly.”
“It appears closed from here.”
I reached across the table.
“Trust me.”
His jaw worked.
Finally, he nodded.
“I do.”
That evening I met Ethan in a public café.
I told Salvatore not to follow me.
He didn't.
His security detail, however, occupied three tables.
I pretended not to notice.
Ethan apologized.
I forgave him.
Then I told him goodbye.
When I walked outside, Salvatore was waiting beside the Bentley.
“You said you wouldn't follow.”
“I didn't.”
“You’re standing outside.”
“I arrived after.”
“Technicality.”
“An important legal concept.”
I smiled.
Then Ethan emerged behind me.
“Lily.”
I turned.
He hugged me.
Unexpectedly.
I pushed back almost immediately.
But Salvatore saw it.
His face became absolutely still.
Ethan walked away.
I approached my fiancé.
“You’re doing the scary face.”
“I have no idea what you're referring to.”
“Salvatore.”
“He hugged you.”
“Yes.”
“I disliked it.”
“I gathered that.”
He opened my car door.
I didn't move.
“Are you angry with me?”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“No.”
“Then say what you’re feeling.”
For a long moment, he resisted.
Then the powerful Salvatore Constantino exhaled.
“I am sixty-five years old.”
“I know.”
“He is thirty-one.”
“I can subtract.”
“He can give you decades I cannot.”
My amusement vanished.
So that was the wound.
Not Ethan.
Time.
I touched Salvatore’s face.
“You think I don't know how old you are?”
“I think you don't yet understand what it means.”
“And you think you get to decide what years are worth to me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I pulled him down and kissed him.
Right there on the sidewalk.
When I stepped back, he looked stunned.
“I chose you,” I whispered. “Stop competing with a man who already lost.”
For once, Salvatore Constantino had no answer.
Then his phone rang.
He checked the screen.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
I knew instantly something was wrong.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at me.
“Get in the car.”
“Salvatore?”
“Now.”
His security men began moving.
Across the street, a black SUV accelerated away.
Salvatore pulled me against him.
May you like
And I realized Ethan had not been the real threat.
Someone else had been watching us.
