Page 33 of Secret Baby for my Off-Limits Fiancé

I shrug. “I don’t know, G. I thought I knew him, but it’s been three years. People change.”

She sighs, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. But I can tell you this, keeping this a secret forever isn’t an option. Not for you, and definitely not for Vincent.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I know she’s right.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop running from the truth.

***

Lorenzo’s Café is packed when I arrive, as expected. Being so close to the college campus, it’s always buzzing with students and caffeine addicts around this time of day.

As I stand in line, a woman catches my eye.

She’s impossible not to notice. Tall, elegant, with sleek raven-black hair pulled into a tight bun. She wears a tweed blazer and a perfectly tailored skirt, the kind of outfit you only see on women who ooze wealth and power.

She looks like she stepped out of a Vogue spread, standing out like a sore thumb in this town.

I’m staring for too long, because suddenly, she crashes into me.

“Oh, sorry,” I stammer, stepping back.

She barely spares me a glance, her lipstick-painted lips curling into a scowl. “Watch it.”

Her voice is smooth but clipped, like I’m beneath her notice. Then, with an air of detached indifference, she strides out of the café.

Well, okay then.

I brush it off, get my coffee, and head back to drop off Giana’s before heading home.

***

The moment I step into my apartment, I slip into my makeshift studio, eager to work.

The familiar hum of my sewing machine and the scent of fabric soothe my nerves.

It’s been a while since I’ve worked from home, having a proper shop spoiled me. But there’s something about being in this space that brings me back to my early days, college nights spent hunching over fabric, sketching until dawn, armed with nothing but a cheap sewing machine and a dream.

Soft jazz music plays in the background, Coltrane, Armstrong, the classics.

This is my happy place.

The dress I’m working on is for a wedding in three months. The bride wants a blend of modern trends and traditional elegance, a fun, creative challenge.

I run my fingers over the delicate lace bodice, checking the sheer sleeves I’ve carefully sewn tiny pearls into. The skirt flows in layers, airy and romantic.

I pause, admiring my work.

Then, for a brief, dangerous second, my mind slips.

I see myself at an altar, in this very dress, my heart pounding. A tall, broad-shouldered man stands beside me, his eyes locked on mine, filled with an intensity that sets my soul on fire.

I recognize the man.

Valentino.

What the hell?

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