Chapter 11 Catherine’s POV Two Months Later The Florentine sun healed my wounds. In the fields of Tuscany, | found myself again. | painted, | read, | studied the classics. No calls from Luciano. No news of Maya. No shadow of the New York mafia. Just me, and pure art. | designed a dozen new gowns, inspired by the Renaissance masters. Elegant, pure, with an untouchable grace. This was my new life. The day | returned to New York, the autumn air was crisp. The airport was bustling, but my heart was calm. My father was there to pick me up. —- “You look good,” he smiled.
“My daughter is alive again.” “lam,” | smiled back. “I’m ready to start my new life.” The car drove toward home. New York was still New York. But | was no longer the same Catherine. My story traveled faster than | did. It became a whisper among the elite: the Don’s fiancée who walked away from the throne and chose herself. Someone was waiting for me at the front gate. A familiar figure. Maya. She had lost a lot of weight. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-rimmed. She stood up when she saw me get out of the car. “Catherine.” | wasn’t surprised. | wasn’t angry.
| just looked at her, my expression neutral. —- “What do you want to say?” “|… |want to apologize,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything | did.” | nodded. “Okay.” “| was jealous of you,” she continued. “I’ve been jealous since high school. Of your family, your character, the love you received.” “I know.” “| wanted everything you had. So…” Tears started to fall down her face. “| destroyed our friendship. | destroyed your love.” | listened silently. “Peter told me you gave up Paris for me,” she choked out. “| never knew…
| never knew how much you sacrificed.” “Now you know,” my voice was flat. “Is there anything else?” My coldness seemed to shock her. “Catherine, |… I’m so sorry. Can we please…” —- “No.” “What?” “| forgive you, Maya,” | said, the words feeling clean and final. “Not for you, but for me. So | can let this go. But forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. You don’t get to come back from this. You burned that bridge, and the ashes are cold.” Her face went even paler. “Our friendship is dead,” | continued.
“It died in that club.” “Catherine, please-” “Don’t come looking for me again.” | turned and walked toward my front door. “He’ll never love me!” she screamed after me. “It was always you!” | paused, but didn’t turn. “That sounds like a you problem,” | said over my shoulder. “Not a me problem.” | pushed open the door. Maya was still outside, crying. —- But my heart felt nothing. The old Catherine would have felt sorry for her. Would have forgiven her, comforted her, given her a second chance. But the new me knew better: some people don’t deserve a second chance.
Three months later, | leased a studio in the heart of Manhattan. The sign, “Catherine Sterling Designs,” gleamed. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased my latest work: twelve couture gowns, each a piece of art. Inspired by the masters-Da Vinci’s mystery, Michelangelo’s strength, Botticelli’s grace. My clients loved the gowns | designed. They were elegant, independent, and radiated an unconquerable strength. Just like me now. At dusk, | was alone in my studio. The New York skyline glittered outside, a river of —- stars, the Empire State Building a beacon in the dark.
| stood at the window with a glass of Dom Pérignon, looking down at the city. Two years ago, | was Luciano Carbone’s fiancée. Maya Cross’s best friend. A supporting character in someone else’s story. Now, | am Catherine Sterling. Designer. Entrepreneur. An independent woman. My phone rang. An unknown international number. “Miss Sterling, this is the editor-in-chief of Vogue Italia. We would love to do a feature on you.” I smiled. Anew chapter was beginning. This time, | was on my own. The title they proposed: ‘The Queen Who Built Her Own Throne.’
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
