Page 29 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

He didn’t even deserve the way I reacted.

If anything, he’d been… decent. Smug, sure. Infuriating, absolutely. But he hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated. He’d asked for my name twice. And based on what I’d read online—the headlines, the trial summaries, the flashbulb photos from yacht parties—he was exactly the type of man who moved on quickly. A flirt. A charmer. A rich boy who probably forgot my name the second I walked out of that hotel room.

So what was I worried about?

The man had scandal in his bloodstream and a reputation for never staying in one place too long. I was just a brief stopover in a town too small for his last name.

Good, I reminded myself. That’s what I wanted. No lingering. No staring. No feeling.

My phone rang, buzzing against the countertop. I glanced at the screen and smiled.

+39 — Italy.

The time difference meant it was just after eight there.

I answered. “Ciao, bella.”

“Oh my goddess,” Sophie groaned with mock drama. “You picked up. I was so sure you’d be in some meeting yelling at a supplier about undercooked asparagus.”

I laughed. “It’s my day off. You got lucky.”

“Well,Iam drinking espresso on a balcony in Positano while my mate sleeps off last night’s wine tasting. So I win.”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at my laundry pile. “You really do.”

“I just wanted to call,” she went on, her voice softening, “and say thank you. I didn’t get a proper moment at the ceremony—everyone was pulling me in a million directions—but Ada,seriously, it was perfect. Every detail. Every plate. The flowers, the lights—all of it. You made my dream real.”

The knot in my chest loosened.

“Thank you,” I said, throat a little tight. “That means more than you know.”

“I got you something, by the way,” she added. “From this little market in Florence. I saw it and immediately thought Ada needs this or she will combust. So, you know. You have that to look forward to.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me. “Unfortunately.”

Sophie laughed, warm and full of sunlight. “We’re doing Naples tomorrow—Karl wants to try that pizza place everyone raves about, the one with the 200-year-old oven. And then we’re taking a boat out to Capri for the day after. Just the two of us, no itinerary, no phones. Just vibes and ocean air.”

Her voice shimmered with happiness, that quiet, golden kind of joy that only came when you were wrapped in the arms of someone who felt like home.

My thoughts drifted.

It must be wonderful… to share moments like that with someone.

It didn’t matter if it was Italy or a lazy Sunday walk in the park—just having someone beside you. Someone to lean into when the sun dipped too low, someone who laughed with you just because you were there.

That’s what a bond was.

Not just passion or instinct or fate—it was choosing someone every day and knowing they chose you too.

My parents had shown me that in their own quiet, imperfect way.

We didn’t have wealth growing up. Far from it. My dad was a mechanic from Mexico City with permanently stained hands and a fondness for old ranchera songs. My mom ran a small hair salon out of the back of our house in Miami, always smelling of hairspray and cinnamon tea.

But they loved each other—loudly, kindly, without shame. They danced in the kitchen. They split every mango. They found joy in the smallest, cheapest things, like plastic flowers for the table or hand-sewn curtains.

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