Chapter 9
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At that moment, Valentino King was holding my photograph, questioning every designer returning from London.
“She’s the love of my life. I heard she went to London a few years back. Have any of you seen her?”
Years of separation had left him looking worn out.
The designers instantly recognized me, but none of them spoke up.
Then he spotted me in the crowd and rushed over.
“Paris, you’re back.”
I instinctively wanted to run but stopped myself. “Oh, is there something you want? If not, I’m leaving.”
My cold stare cut short his attempt at small talk, and as I casually turned away, he grabbed my arm. “Paris, I’m sorry.”
He began apologizing repeatedly, confessing his mistakes, and promised he had ended things with Camila Jimenez.
I was unmoved by his pleas.
“So what?”
21:12 Wed, Jul 23 ►
I left the ballroom and returned to my hotel.
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Valentino followed me the entire way, reminiscing about our past moments.
Before going to bed, I habitually looked out the window, and there he was, his long shadow cast under the streetlight. When he saw me open the curtains, he waved eagerly.
I found it infuriating, so I called hotel security to have Valentino removed.
Yet, the next morning, he was still waiting downstairs.
As I walked out, he graciously opened the passenger door for me. “The driving regulations here and abroad differ. You probably haven’t converted your license yet.”
“The city’s changed a lot recently. You’re not familiar with it anymore; let me show you around.”
I ignored him and hailed a cab.
Having just returned, I didn’t have any specific plans, so I decided to visit my favorite old bakery.
Somewhere along the line, its name had changed to “Thinking of You.” Inside, the décor was just as I remembered.
21:12 Wed, Jul 23 DOO
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Once I sat down, Gabriella, the shop assistant, brought over a dessert menu.
Every item was one I loved.
They said that five years ago, Valentino had acquired this bakery. Since then, it only served selected treats.
Even the once–limited edition desserts were now served daily.
On a whim, I ordered a special I’d never tried before.
As the spiced honey cake was brought to the table, nostalgia washed over me.
As the rich, spiced honey melted in my mouth, tears involuntarily slipped from my eyes.
Turns out, it wasn’t as legendary as the rumors claimed.
In that moment, I found peace.
But Valentino didn’t. Wearing a chef’s uniform, he emerged from the back: “Paris, I made that cake myself. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it for you five years ago.”
My eyes fell on his left hand, where a scar ran across his palm–a mark left from Camila’s furious attack.
Their divorce had been tumultuous.
Camila demanded half the property, which Valentino didn’t care about.
But when she wanted to take away what I had left behind, Valentino lost it.
The scar was a remnant of that quarrel, leaving his left hand almost useless, while Camila not only lost the baby but also went to prison for intentional harm.
These were details I had learned from the news just yesterday.
Sed
Old stories from years ago had made headlines again, by
machinations.
Jupolomeone’s
“Paris, I’ve changed. Please come back. I’ll bake for you every day.”
Valentino’s eyes reddened as he looked at me with desperate longing.
“No. Your cakes are just like you–absolutely awful.”
“Please, stop bothering me. We’re done.”
I set down the knife, fork, and cash for the bill before heading straight to the door.
At the threshold, I glanced back and saw him bend down to taste th
I’d left behind.
Tears trickled down his face.
His mouth murmured, “Yeah, it really is bad, just like me–awful.”
From that point on, he never came looking for me again.
rt
