T
Hayla Coleman hadn't planned on returning to Ravenna, the city she left ten years ago. Memories of her past—painful, messy, and filled with heartbreak—had kept her away. She had built a quiet, stable life in another city, far from the shadows of mafia families, late-night threats, and a boy who had stolen her heart only to disappear.
But when the invitation arrived—elegant, embossed with gold and sealed with a wax insignia—she couldn't ignore it. The Ravenna Ball. A gala rumored to gather the most influential people in the city. And at the center of it all, one name she had tried to forget: Dante Moretti.
Dante. The boy she had loved with reckless abandon in her teenage years. The one who had broken her heart without explanation. The one who now ran a criminal empire rumored to stretch across continents.
Hayla stared at the invitation in her hands, her pulse quickening. She told herself it was a chance to reclaim her life, to face the past and finally close that chapter. Yet, deep down, her stomach twisted with a familiar mix of fear and longing.
By the time she arrived at the gala, dressed in a sleek emerald gown that hugged her figure and sparkled under the chandelier lights, Hayla felt a strange thrill. The grand ballroom was filled with men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns, champagne glasses in hand. But Hayla's eyes were searching for only one figure.
And then, across the room, he appeared. Dante Moretti. Tall, impeccably dressed, exuding the danger and charm she remembered. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.
"Hayla," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper meant only for her. There was no warmth in it, yet it carried the weight of their history.
"Dante," she replied, her tone steady despite the flutter in her chest.
No one spoke. No one moved. It was just the two of them, separated by a room full of people and a decade of unspoken words.
"Why are you here?" she asked, her curiosity mingled with caution.
"I could ask you the same," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. But his eyes were serious, dark, unreadable. "I heard you're back in town. I didn't expect you at this… event."
"I received an invitation," she said, shrugging slightly, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice. "And I thought… maybe it's time to face the past."
Dante's gaze lingered on her, and for the first time since she left, Hayla felt the old spark of connection that had once made her reckless, daring, and hopelessly in love.
"Then let's talk," he said, and without waiting for her answer, he led her to a quieter corner of the room.
The air between them was charged, memories rushing back like a tide they had both tried to resist. Questions, regrets, and what-ifs swirled around them, threatening to pull them back into the orbit they had left years ago.
"Ten years," Hayla whispered, almost to herself.
"Ten years," Dante echoed. And in that moment, the past wasn't gone—it was right there, alive, and dangerously close.