And Then There's Italy...

At Heathrow Airport, Leya sat with her nerdy glasses perched on her nose, her grey sweatpants comfy but stylishly casual, paired with a black top, black blazer and her lilac trainers. She was a picture of someone caught between worlds, ready to step into a new chapter of her life. As she waited, memories flickered like scenes from a movie—moments of her last altercation with Nicholas, his strawberry-blond hair and piercing brown eyes filled with that entitled frustration.

He had always held her small hometown in contempt, the way some people looked down on a place like Luton compared to a glamorous Knightsbridge. Nicholas was a trust-fund kid through and through, and Leya had felt that weight of his expectations pressing down on her one too many times.

Now, here she was, about to leave it all behind—using Italy as her escape hatch, her chance to figure out who she really was beyond the law degree she’d earned at Oxford, a degree that never quite felt like her true calling.

Her phone buzzed.

NIC: Don’t do this.

She exhaled through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. Even his texts had an edge of ownership. The kind of man who didn’t ask—he demanded.

The flight number blinked on the screen above her gate. Milan Malpensa – Now Boarding. Her stomach twisted. Freedom had a strange taste—sweet with a hint of guilt. She thought of her dad back in Northampton, probably watching the same rain fall against the kitchen window. And Jaime—her fifteen-year-old brother—half listening to music, half pretending not to care that she was leaving.

Nicholas’s voice echoed in her head, You’ll come crawling back once you see what real life costs.

She could still see him standing in her flat that night, face flushed with anger, the veins in his neck sharp under the light. The smashed glass on the floor. The way he’d grabbed her wrist, not out of love but possession. For a split second she’d almost given in, almost believed the tears that came after. But something in her—something stubborn, tired, and aching for air—had told her to run.

Now she was running.

As she walked toward the gate, the airport lights blurred against the glass. Each step echoed like a heartbeat, steady and deliberate. She adjusted herself, shoved her boarding pass into her pocket, and tried to imagine what Italy would smell like. Salt and espresso, probably, since she was on her way to the Italian Riviera. Maybe something citrus in the air, something alive like at the Amalfi coast.

The customs line snaked ahead, slow and unbothered. When the officer scanned her passport, Leya caught the faintest hesitation in his expression.

“You’ll need to wait a moment,” he said, polite but clearly ready to ruin someone’s day. He gestured toward a side desk.

“Open,” he nodded at her bag.

She unzipped it — and immediately regretted everything. Her belongings exploded across the counter like a clearance bin being overturned. The officer gave that look all men give when they glimpse the endless abyss that is a woman’s handbag: overwhelmed, mildly traumatised, unsure where to place his eyes.

He poked through it with two fingers, cautious, like he expected a feral creature to leap out.Too flustered by the sheer amount of shit she travelled with, he grabbed her spray can and held it up like contraband.

“This must stay.”

So she let him toss her anti-perspirant into the bin, mourning it silently.

Maybe she had packed too much.Okay — she had definitely packed too much.

She made her way down the bridge toward the plane, boarding pass pinched between her fingers.What a tedious exercise,she thought. They’d scanned her documents four times already — surely that meant she belonged on this plane. But when she handed her pass to the hostess, the woman frowned for the briefest second, then tilted her head toward the front of the aircraft.

“Right this way, Miss Clarke.”

The front. The side glowing like warm gold dust — soft lamps, velvet curtains, champagne glasses clinking somewhere ahead. Nothing like the harsh, plasticky white light spilling from the economy cabin on her right.

…Was she being sent to first class?

Before the hostess even had the chance to reconsider, Leya slipped left, practically diving into the golden-lit aisle. The moment she crossed the curtain, it felt like she’d stepped inside that swanky bar near Harrods she always pretended she could afford — quiet, lush, expensive in every corner.

Heart pounding, she glanced down at her boarding pass just to be sure.

There it was.

Seat 1A. First Class.

Her stomach dropped.When did this happen? Was it Dante pulling strings? The airline? A clerical error?Or maybe — just maybe — some cosmic sign nudging her forward, whispering,Yes. This is the right path.

She stood there, frozen in a bubble of disbelief, until a flight attendant touched her elbow gently.“This way, Miss.”

Still stunned, she followed her into the soft-lit cabin. Cabins opened and cabins smacked shut and another notification from Nic again.

In a flash—His hand slamming against the top cupboard beside her head, voice shaking with pride and fear. “You think you’re better than me? You’re nothing without me, Leya.”

Her chest tightened.

She blinked the memory away and reached up to shove her carry-on into the overhead bin. It was too heavy. Of course it was.Her arms trembled.

A hand — strong, warm, steady — wrapped around the handle and lifted it effortlessly.

She turned.

The man beside her gave a quiet nod, as if helping her was the most natural thing in the world. Something in the air shifted. The tension in her chest loosened, melted. Just for that moment, she felt… safe. His eyes were the deep blue of the Ligurian Sea, his skin sun-warmed like the beaches she’d scrolled past online a week before, looking up Chiavari. Rich brunette curls fell over his forehead, kept at bay by his glasses — curls that bounced whenever he pushed them back. She then noticed how freakishly tall he was too…

Attracted to a stranger’s face — to the ease of him — she felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you,” she managed.

The corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile. That smile. God. She slid into her seat quickly before she did something stupid — like stare at him for too long.

On the plane, Leya took the window seat, pulled the collar of her blazer over her hair, and closed her eyes as the engines roared to life. She wasn’t ready to think about what waited for her—her new tutoring job in Chiavari, her boss Dante Caruso’s penthouse apartment overlooking the Ligurian Sea, or his mysterious girlfriend she’d be teaching English to. She just wanted to forget.

But memory didn’t care for boundaries.

The plane broke through them, light spilling over the horizon in a wash of gold.

Below, England shrank into patches of grey and green, and with it, everything she’d been afraid to leave.

Leya pressed her forehead against the window and thought, “This is it.”She’s concerned.

“What if never come back?”

As the plane levelled, the soft chime of the seatbelt sign disappearing filled the quiet of first class. A few seconds later, she heard frantic tapping beside her — the same gentle giant who’d helped her shove her absurdly heavy carry-on into the overhead compartment.

He tapped the screen again. And again. Then sighed under his breath.

He looked her way the moment she glanced over, a little embarrassed to be caught in the act.

“I cannot get this to work,” he admitted, half frustrated, half amused, his accent warm in a way she couldn’t place yet. “I’ve been flying since Tokyo. I was really hoping to watch something before I pass out.”

He didn’t owe her an explanation, but Leya understood him. If her screen was broken on a long-haul flight, she’d be debating life choices too.

“Or maybe just sleep,” she offered gently. “Your trip sounds… intense.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Maybe sleeping is wiser.”

Then he turned fully toward her — and God help her — those eyes.Round, open, impossibly blue. Like water hit by sunlight.

“And you?” he asked. “Where do you come from?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question, but coming from him — with his eyes locked on hers — she felt herself warm all over.

“London… recently,” she said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “But originally from Northampton.”

She looked away quickly. North-freaking-hampton. Nothing glamorous. Nothing to brag about. Certainly nothing like Tokyo, for heaven’s sake.

He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never been. But I visit London often. Love it. Always wish I could stay longer.”

He glanced back at his screen, tapping it again uselessly. The only thing it displayed was a frozen flight map.

She wondered if she should ask if they could share her screen. Maybe watch something together.

Too intimate? Too desperate? Too soon? Yes. Probably all of the above.

Then he surprised her.

“I went to Oxfordshire recently, actually,” he added suddenly. “To visit a friend. A quick trip.”

“Oh really? I just graduated from Oxford.” Her voice came out brighter than intended, betraying her excitement.

His face lit subtly. “That’s… impressive. I didn’t get to explore much. I was in and out.”

They both turned to the plane map again — a safe focal point for two people trying not to implode with unexpected chemistry.

Leya clicked at her own screen, trying to open the flight monitor, and her finger brushed his by accident. Both froze for a heartbeat.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“No, no,” he said at the exact same time.

They laughed — softly, shyly — at the ridiculousness of fighting with a stubborn screen like two children handling a toy.

“You should call the hostess,” she offered. “If this doesn’t work, you’ll be bored to death.”

“I know,” he chuckled, “but I’m still trying. Maybe it just needs… encouragement.”

But they kept clicking anyway — clearly more interested in not ending their tiny shared moment than in fixing the screen.

When the menu finally loaded, they both leaned in at the same time, almost butting heads. Her breath stalled.

He smelled bold, fresh, and something faintly spicy — a scent she’d later become addicted to.

Their shoulders brushed, just barely. Her lungs forgot how to function.

He asked her about her degree at Oxford. He told her about backpacking through Japan for three months — alone, spontaneous, alive in a way she’d never dared to be.

She drank in his stories like oxygen.

Her first time crossing from the island to the continent… and he’d spent weeks wandering ancient shrines, neon alleyways, and mountain trails. No rules. No expectations. Just freedom.

She leaned a little closer without realising it — wanting proximity to his world, his voice, his energy. He didn’t move away. His posture stayed open. Inviting.

The air hostess came by with her perfectly polished smile.

A moment of panic — she’d forgotten she was in first class. She almost asked for plain water, embarrassed.

But when he ordered something as humble as an apple juice, she breathed out.

No judgement. No pretence.

“I’ll have a martini,” she said.

He glanced at her — not surprised, not impressed, not amused. Just interested.

Their conversation carried on until it softened into a quiet. The cabin lights dimmed to the warm amber glow meant for sleep.

She wanted so badly to rest her head on his shoulder. His sweater looked like safety.

Instead, she curled against the window, her neck pillow propping her gently.

Little by little, her thoughts drifted.

His voice…His eyes…Tokyo…Oxford…Italy…

And then darkness finally claimed her.

Sleep dragged her backward.

Suddenly she was in her dorm room again — half-packed suitcase open on the floor, clothes folded in shaky stacks. The fan clicked overhead. The air felt too still. She was focused on zipping compartments, tucking away the last pieces for Italy.

Nic paced behind her.

He wanted her attention. He demanded it.

“Why are you going?” She didn’t look at him. “Because I need the space.”

“You have everything here. I’m here.” His voice tightened. “If you go, I’m going to lose you.”

Guilt pressed into her spine… and anger… and fear.

He hadn’t always been like this, you know. But lately the jealousy, the moods, the way his voice could cut… it had all grown teeth.

Flashes of weeks before:

—That night outside her dorm.

—Him slurring, “Hit me. Go on. Hit me.”

—The stranger approaching her, asking for her number, and Nic nearly swinging at him.

Her shame lived in her skin.Her shame… and his.

And still — she had stayed.

Back in the dorm, the dream ran like memory:

“Stop packing,” he ordered from the bed.

“No.”

He stared through her with something burning and irrational behind his eyes. She hadn’t understood it until he moved — fast — ripping through her suitcase, grabbing her by the arms.

A thud.

A blur.

Suddenly his hand was at her throat, pinning her down, the rage exploding in his chest.

“You will not disrespect me!”

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The weight of him felt immovable — like iron, like punishment. She thought if she fought, he would snap.

She froze. Closed her eyes.

—and she jerked awake.

The roar of engines swallowed her breath. The cabin lights glowed dim gold.

Her hand was at her throat.

Someone touched her other hand gently — steady, grounding.The man beside her. The gentle giant. The one who’d helped her with her bags.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low.

She blinked, still half in the dream. “Yes. I… I’m fine.”

She sat back against the window, trying to look composed, the clouds below blooming like pale cotton.

Her chest ached. Her hands trembled.

Just breathe.

She fixed her eyes outside the window — anywhere but him — anywhere but the shame and panic buzzing under her ribs.

She didn’t notice him looking at her neck.

Didn’t notice the way his expression shifted — faint horror, faint fury — as he spotted the dark bruising at the base of her throat.

An imprint.

A mark no stranger should ever see.

As the sunlight pierced through the clouds to greet them with a good morning, the air hostesses served a quick coffee before departure. As much as she wanted to chat with her hero-man, she was relieved they weren’t talking anymore. She was exhausted from traveling, from packing, from the altercation with Nic. It had all been mentally taxing and she couldn’t give another man more space in her mind, let alone her heart. Yet, even though her heart felt closed off, she couldn’t help feeling those little butterflies every time he moved or spoke. He ordered a black coffee with no sugar, stretched just enough not to seem rude, and she wondered about his life. Was he a nomad living in the Alps? Maybe in marketing with those intense convincing blue eyes. It didn’t matter, because once they landed and he handed her luggage back, they had to part ways. European Union line for him, foreign line for her. It was time to say goodbye.

She queued up and noticed all the foreign faces around her, realising how out of place she was but also how she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. She thought of her mixed heritage, her family, her brother. Her ash-brown hair and her brother’s freckles. Her green eyes and his caramel skin. They were a proud mixed-bunch at home, father English and mother South African. She drifted in those thoughts when suddenly she heard a loud, joking voice. The Italian border officer was teasing a man from Botswana, repeating “Botswana, Botswana! Why are you here?” in a humorous way. It made her smile—this was her first real taste of Italy’s loud, passionate and bureaucratic charm. They let the man through, and then they let her through as well.

After that, she rushed to figure out the trains, feeling a bit lost and uncultured, trying to navigate the sea of Italian signs. She tried to romanticise it but really just needed to find the right platform. And then it happened: her cabin bag slipped from her grasp and went clattering down the escalator. It felt like an eternity of sheer embarrassment, every bang echoing as the world seemed to freeze and all eyes turned to her. A kind gentleman helped retrieve the bag, and a lady helped her pick up broken pieces from her luggage, turning the moment into a little shared human comedy. And that was that—just one more quirky, real moment in her journey.

It was a quick back-and-forth exchange between her and Federica, via text, to confirm which platform she needed. At this point, Leya didn’t even care if she ended up lost in Naples or Florence—she just wanted to get on a train. Any train. If it wasn’t for her stupid oversized luggage, she might’ve gambled it.

As the train rolled in, people crowded the doors before they even opened. Leya braced herself. She hooked her foot under her giant suitcase and tried to heave it up the step—ridiculous, impossible, humiliating.

A man immediately stepped in, taking the handle and lifting it for her.

Third Italian gentleman today. She was starting to fall in love with the entire country.

“Grazie,” she said breathlessly.

Before she could blink, another pair of hands—pale, sturdy—grabbed the other side of her bag. A blonde girl, small but strong, helped shove it inside.

“Here you go!” she said

Leya just laughed. “Oh my god—thank you.”

They stood together by the train door, united survivors against the chaos of luggage, crowds, and miscommunication.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” the blonde girl asked, scrolling intensely through her phone.

American.Leya nearly hugged her from sheer relief.

“Honestly? No clue,” Leya admitted. “Where are you getting off?”

The girl turned her screen—Maps was tracking her live location across Italy. Genius.

“I’m going to Cerro for a wedding,” she said. “I think. I hope. I’m from Upstate New York. You?”

“From the U.K and on my way to The Riviera,” Leya said, trying not to sound intimidated. “Connecting train first.”

They talked lightly—weddings, travel, solo adventures, New York vs Northampton, expensive degrees and cheap wine—then exchanged numbers before the girl hopped off. Her name was Em.

Then the tunnels swallowed the train into darkness.

By the time Leya stepped onto Milano Centrale, she was hit with two things at once:

1. the most beautiful station she’d ever seen,
2. the sudden urge to pee like her kidneys were auditioning for the Olympics.

She dragged her bags across the marble floor only to discover… she had to pay to pee. And the machine refused her notes.

Of course.

Just as she felt humiliation rising, an older Italian man tapped her shoulder and handed her coins.

“For you,” he said kindly.

Chivalry? Alive and thriving in Italy.

After surviving the bathroom ordeal, she stepped into a patch of light to take pictures for her dad and Jaime. Before she could send anything—

NIC: I’m in the hospital.

Her stomach dropped.

She typed: What happened? No response.

Of course not.

Attention. Manipulation. His favourite cocktail.

She blocked the number. Hands shaking. Breath shallow.

Freedom required sacrifice.

She took her next picture anyway. For her dad. For herself.

On the train to Genoa, she was warned by yet another Italian papa about her phone sticking out. She smiled, tucked it away.

People here were so kind. Almost too kind.

What could possibly go wrong?

The train slowed into the Genoa platform. Leya stepped off, dragging her giant bag behind her.

And then—like a flash of pink champagne exploding under sunlight—she saw it.

A sparkling powder-pink Mercedes convertible, glittering as if dipped in stardust, rolling straight toward her.

Italian pop music blasted from the speakers. And from behind the wheel—

Federica Conti.

All neutrals, all curves, all curls—her mane a lion’s halo in the afternoon sun.

Before Leya could process it, Federica launched herself out of the car with a squeal.

“LEEYA, AMORE! YOU ARE HERE!”

She ran—arms wide, perfume cloud trailing behind her—and enveloped Leya in the most dramatic Italian hug known to mankind.

The sound, the sparkle, the scent, the chaos—

This was it.Her life was officially changing.

And as Federica squeezed her tighter, laughing and shouting all at once…

Leya thought:

Italy, do your worst. I’m ready.