Page 17 of The Road to You

LENA

T he Boboli Gardens look like something straight out of a fairy tale.

Sunlight filters through towering trees, casting intricate shadows on the manicured paths.

The scent of blooming flowers lingers in the air, mixing with the warmth of the mid-July stillness.

Everything here feels slower, like time itself has softened its edges, allowing life to be savored instead of rushed through.

I stroll beside Michele in comfortable silence, the warmth of the sun kissing my skin.

My cheeks are still sore from laughing so much back at the Accademia.

That’s the thing about him: being around him is effortless, like breathing.

There’s no pressure, no need to be the poised and polished version of myself that Hollywood demands.

With Michele, I don’t have to be “Lena Sinclair, actress.” I can just be me. Messy hair, no makeup, raw emotions and all. He doesn’t judge. He never has. And every time I walk into a room, I catch his gaze burning into me like I’m something worth worshiping.

God, those eyes. Deep, dark, and molten, like rich, melted chocolate you want to drown in.

They’re maybe the part I like the most about him.

Yes, his body is gorgeous, but his eyes make the world shrink down to just the two of us.

There is no escaping the intensity of his gaze.

Once he captures you with those irises, you’re locked in, forgetting the rest of the world.

I inhale deeply, letting the moment settle into my bones.

“I could get used to this,” I murmur, stretching my arms above my head, tilting my face toward the sun.

There is something magical about the Italian sun that makes you want to bask in it all day long.

Or maybe it’s the laziness that surrounds us these days.

It’s strange how a few months ago I didn’t know how to live without planning my life down to the minute, and now I can walk carefree without knowing what we’ll do the next hour.

There is something powerful in knowing that anything is possible, we get to decide and nobody else.

Coming to this country this summer, I realized how much my life depends on so many people.

It’s refreshing, for once, to do what I want without caring about pleasing other people.

Michele glances at me with amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “What? Italy or being on vacation?”

I smile. “Both, I guess. I love the pace of life here. The food. The sun. The…” I trail off, biting my lip as I catch his smirk.

“The devastatingly handsome company?” he finishes, cocking an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help laughing. “You’re alright, I guess.” I’ve already admitted more than once that he’s handsome, and he’s caught me way too many times checking him out.

He clutches his chest in mock offense. “Alright? Tesoro , that’s cruel.”

I laugh at his dramatic response and bump my shoulder against his.

Before I can respond with some joke that will inflate his ego, my phone starts ringing. The shrill sound cuts through the tranquility, instantly dragging me back to reality like a slap in the face.

I sigh, already expecting to see Greta’s name flashing on the screen.

She’s been calling almost every other day, demanding updates on my whereabouts and making sure I haven’t thrown my phone into the Arno River.

She is worried about me because of the news of a possible tryst between me and a mysterious soccer player, which made the headlines back home, and she wants to be on the same page about what I want people to know about it.

I told her I don’t care, as long as the paparazzi don’t start following me around in this country.

But when I pull the phone out of my purse, my stomach drops.

Preston.

A month and a half. That’s how long it’s been since his affair blew up every gossip site in the country.

For weeks, I’ve been desperately awaiting this call.

For an explanation. An apology. Hell, even a half-assed excuse.

But now, I just feel nothing. No anticipation.

No sadness. Just a simmering irritation at the fact that he thinks he has the right to disturb my peace.

I should send him to voicemail. Give him the silent treatment, the way he did after I discovered the truth. But something inside me shifts. Maybe it’s closure. Maybe it’s anger. Either way, I answer.

“I have to take this,” I say to Michele, noticing my voice turning somber.

Michele’s eyes darken with concern, but he simply nods and takes a step away, giving me space. God, I wish more men were as considerate as he is.

I press the phone to my ear. “Finally, you decide to call,” I say, letting my bitterness seep into every syllable.

Six weeks without being able to vent my frustration results in my fury raising its head in all its glory. And it feels good to direct these ugly feelings toward him.

Preston exhales sharply, already irritated. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Can we talk?”

His tone is so annoying I want to crawl out of my skin. I blink. Is he serious? I should be the one who’s pissed, not him.

“Oh, so, you’re finally ready to admit what you did and apologize?” My voice drips with sarcasm, and I don’t even try to rein it in. I want him to feel every ounce of my disgust for him.

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

I can practically hear him calculating his next move, choosing his words carefully, just like always.

I never paid much attention to this side of him; working in this industry teaches you to weigh each word carefully before someone takes advantage of you.

But, now that it’s being used against me, I realize how little he cares about me, or at least what we once had.

And then he speaks. “What? No! I want to talk about your Italian escapades.”

I freeze. For a second, I think I must have misheard him. He cheated on me , got caught, and publicly humiliated me. But now he wants to police my life? Have I stepped into an alternate reality, without realizing it? I can’t have spent four years of my life with this asshole.

“You can’t be serious,” I say, my voice flat.

“Of course I’m serious. The news reached the States, Lena. Your little European vacation is plastered all over the gossip sites.” His voice is laced with barely restrained anger.

I knew that already, Greta told me, but the sheer audacity of this man still manages to stun me.

He is so self-absorbed that he doesn’t even contemplate my position in all this mess that he dumped on me.

He could have told me he fell for another person, and I would have been heartbroken, but I would have understood it.

Instead, he chose the easy way out without taking responsibility, and now he’s making me out to be the bad guy.

I let out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I caught you screwing another man because your affair was all over the magazines. And you’re pissed at me ?”

Michele’s head snaps up at my raised voice, his brows knitting together in silent concern. I turn away, gripping the phone tightly. I don’t want him to see me this upset over a man who doesn’t deserve any of my time anymore.

“Don’t make this about me,” Preston snaps. “I called to tell you to come back and stop making me look like a fool, or else…”

I pause, and my breath catches in my throat. This man. This selfish, delusional asshole . How could I have been so blind to stay with him for four years?

“Or else what, Preston? Is that a threat? You think you look like a fool?” My voice trembles with fury. “You humiliated me in front of the entire world and didn’t even have the decency to apologize. You deserve a lot worse than just bad press.”

He scoffs. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re on vacation in Italy, Lena. How bad can it be?”

I swear, if he were standing in front of me, I would throw him into the nearest fountain. How dare he judge me? The nerve this man has is ludicrous. I want to end the conversation right now and tell him to go to hell, but I also feel he owes me an apology, even if I know it will never come.

“I’m in Italy because the paparazzi chased me out of the country because of you, ” I spit.

I glance at Michele and see his worried face scrutinizing mine.

I want to tell him that everything is okay, but he’ll know it’s a lie.

Michele is everything but stupid and has a sixth sense for understanding when something is bothering me.

And this time, there’s nothing to guess.

I can feel my face contorting in rage. I can’t hide it.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re wasting any time getting over it. A soccer player , Lena? Seriously? That’s such a cliché.” His words are laced with venom. “I thought you had standards, but I guess a set of abs is all it takes to make you forget…”

I see red. Every ounce of humiliation, every shred of lingering hurt, dissolves under the weight of my rage.

“Oh, you’re right,” I say, my voice dangerously sweet. “I do have standards. Which is why I finally realized I wasted four years of my life on a self-absorbed, cheating worm like you.”

And with that, I hang up. I’m so furious, my heart pulses in my ears. My hands tremble as I unlock my phone and pull up my chat with Greta.

Bury him. Drag Preston through the mud. No more playing nice. I’m done being reasonable. He just called and threatened me, saying if I don’t go home and play the good, heartbroken ex…well, I don’t know what he’ll do, but I don’t trust him, not one bit.

It takes her all of five seconds to respond. I know she’s usually glued to that phone, but this is a record even for her.

Say no more.

I exhale slowly, shoving my phone back into my bag.

Michele steps closer. “Are you okay?” he asks in a gentle voice.

I won’t lie to him. I shake my head. “No. But I will be.” I force a smile, even though anger still simmers beneath my skin.

I don’t know if he understood what the phone call was about, but he seems worried nonetheless.

That expression grounds me a bit, letting me regain a bit of composure after having the rug pulled from under my feet by Preston.

It’s strange how Michele can shift my entire existence just by asking how I feel.

I’m so used to my answer being irrelevant to the men I’ve been with that the concern on his face feels huge.

He studies me for a beat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shrug and shake my head. Do I want to?

Maybe, but I don’t even know what to say without feeling like a complete idiot for being with my ex for so long.

Now that all the hurt I felt when I discovered his betrayal has disappeared, I can clearly see just how gullible I’ve been.

Preston is not the eccentric artist directing edgy movies I believed he was.

He’s just an entitled asshole adored by many because he can make or destroy careers in Hollywood.

“Just my ex being a raging asshole and me wondering why I wasted so much time on him.” I grimace, wondering what he thinks about me.

Michele smirks. “Well, at least now you’ve got another reason to tell him to go fuck himself.”

Just that. No excuses, no pity, no judgment.

I blink, then let out a startled laugh. “Yeah. No kidding.”

He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm and steady against mine. A pleasant shiver races up my spine and dissipates the last of the anger still simmering under my skin.

“Come,” he says. “The only cure for rage is gelato.”

I arch a brow. “Do Italians solve every problem with food?”

He clutches his chest, gaping at me, feigning offense. “Of course not. We also use wine.”

This time, the laughter spills out of me freely, warm and unburdened.

Michele helped me discover a way of living that’s nothing like what I was used to.

I can’t change what Preston did, and I can’t change what people think about me, but I can trust the people who are important to me.

And that is what matters most. Who cares if someone who doesn’t know me thinks I’m an idiot for not understanding that Preston was cheating?

Who cares if they think our relationship was fake?

Greta believes me, and Tabia too. Michele shows only support for me, so why should I feel obligated to explain myself to strangers? Fuck them and what they think.

And just like that day in Milan, when I first said yes to this trip, I let Michele pull me forward, because somehow, I know he’s leading me toward happiness.