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He didn’t explain right away. Instead, he lifted the box in his hands—clear and tied with a dark green satin ribbon. Inside sat a small cake, slightly imperfect but decorated with care.

“I wanted to be the first to remind you,” he said, voice low and sincere, “it’s our third anniversary today. I made this for us.”

Her gaze flicked from his eyes to the cake, then back again, unsure what to process first—his surprise appearance, the cake he made by himself, or the kiss that was still tingling on her mouth.

Before she could speak, he leaned in once more.

His lips met hers in a hungry, quick kiss that stole her breath away. His mouth pressed fiercely against hers, warm and demanding. His tongue darted out with a teasing sweep—slipping between her lips, flicking against her tongue just long enough to spark a fire before pulling back slightly, only to press his lips harder.

His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against his body so that the heat of him pressed all the waythrough her. She felt the hard press of his chest against her, the strength in his arms as he held her captive in his embrace.

He sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make her gasp. His tongue traced the outline of her lips, licking them slowly, before plunging deeper, exploring every inch of her mouth with a slick, insistent rhythm.

Slowly, he eased back, his breath warm and lingering against her skin.

“Happy anniversary, baby,” he whispered against her lips.

Krystal’s heart kicked hard in her chest. She quickly turned her face away, blinking herself back into reason.

“Stop it,” she muttered, trying to scowl, though her voice came out too breathless to sound convincing. She pushed at his chest, pulling away from his grip.

Then her gaze dropped to the cake again, brows pinching in a scowl. “This isn’t our anniversary anymore. We’re divorced.”

“I can fix that,” he said without missing a beat. “When can I schedule our remarriage? Today? Tomorrow? Wait—give me an hour. I’ll book the venue, the vows, the violinist. Whatever you want.”

She stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

With a tired sigh, Krystal gave him a slow, sidelong glance. Then—without another word—she took the cake from his hands.

“Thanks for the cake. Happy anniversary,” she muttered, voice dry. “I’m exhausted. See you tomorrow.”

And with that, she shut the door in his face.

Lorenzo stood there, blinking at the wooden door that now separated him from the woman he couldn’t stop loving. His hand lifted midair as if to stop her, but he was too slow.

The door clicked shut.

He exhaled heavily, chest tightening with disappointment. He stared at the closed door like it might open again if he waited long enough.

That’s when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and answered without checking.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly.

Xander’s voice crackled through the line. “Mr. Moretti, your grandfather found out about your divorce. He’s demanding you come home. Immediately.”

Inside the apartment, Krystal placed the cake gently on her table and dropped into the chair in front of it.

She just stared.

Then, with a soft breath, she removed the clear lid. The scent of strawberries and vanilla filled the air.

The cake wasn’t perfect—its edges uneven, some frosting clumsily smoothed. But it was clearly handmade.

Her gaze softened.

Right at the center sat two tiny figurines. A chibi version of herself, chin resting on her palm, posed just like an old photo she barely remembered. And beside it—a miniature Lorenzo, arm draped around her shoulders, smiling at her like she was the only woman in the world.