Chapter 1 — Arrival at Villa Il Tramonto

Teagan

The car groaned to a halt on the uneven cobblestones, jolting Teagan Cooper slightly before she tugged open the door and stepped out. The late afternoon sunlight was relentless, gilding everything in a golden haze that seemed designed to irritate her. Villa Il Tramonto loomed before her, its ancient stone walls glowing warmly, as if it had been pulled from a postcard or the pages of a travel magazine. Framed by olive trees and climbing vines, it exuded a timeless charm that instantly made her uneasy.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of lavender, rosemary, and sun-warmed soil. It teased her senses, tempting her to relax—something she wasn’t inclined to do. The scene was too perfect, too idyllic. Things that seemed perfect always came with a catch.

She reached for her duffel bag with a sharp yank, her grip firm on the strap as her boots clacked against the cobblestones. Her green eyes scanned her surroundings, cataloging details with methodical precision: the uneven ground, the narrow paths winding through the garden, the arched entryway to the villa. Potential exits. Obstructions. Vulnerabilities.

But even as she assessed the terrain like a battlefield, the pragmatic part of her had to admit—the place was breathtaking. She hated that.

Teagan wasn’t here to appreciate the scenery. She wasn’t here for the postcard-worthy charm of Italy. She was here for Lydia. And only Lydia. If her best friend hadn’t begged, pleaded, and deployed every emotional weapon in her arsenal, Teagan would have stayed far away from this fairytale wedding in a rustic Italian villa.

“Teagan!”

Lydia’s voice broke through her thoughts, bright and effervescent, and then there she was—a blur of blonde curls, floral fabric, and uncontainable excitement. Before Teagan could brace herself, Lydia swept her into a hug that smelled of jasmine and sheer joy, nearly knocking the breath out of her.

“You made it! Isn’t it beautiful?” Lydia pulled back, her cheeks flushed with happiness as she gestured grandly toward the villa, as if she’d personally painted the scene herself.

“It’s… rustic,” Teagan replied, her tone as dry as the cobblestones beneath her feet. Her mouth quirked up at the corner, faintly amused as Lydia gasped in mock offense.

“Rustic? Teagan, it’s magical,” Lydia declared, spinning in place like a ballerina on stage. The hem of her dress swirled, catching the light. “This place has history! Charm! Romance! Oh, you’re going to love it here—I just know it.”

Teagan raised an eyebrow, leaning into her sarcasm like a shield. “Sure. The romance of creaky floorboards and a tetanus risk. Dreamy.”

“Always the cynic,” Lydia teased, unfazed, as she linked her arm through Teagan’s with practiced ease. The gesture was so natural, so unguarded, that it made Teagan’s chest tighten unexpectedly. “Come on, you grump. Let me show you to your room. And after that? Wine. You’re in Italy now—it’s basically mandatory.”

Teagan allowed herself to be guided toward the villa’s stone steps, though her sharp gaze remained on high alert, scanning her surroundings. The warmth of Lydia’s arm against hers was familiar, grounding. Despite herself, she relaxed—fractionally. The place was undeniably enchanting, the sunlight dappling the golden walls, vines curling like veins over the cracked stone. Teagan could almost—almost—understand why Lydia loved it so much.

Inside, the villa shifted to a quieter kind of charm. The cool shadows of high-beamed ceilings stretched above, while the scent of aged wood mingled with something faintly floral—was it lavender again? Rustic furnishings filled the spaces between arched doorways, and sunlight filtered through lace curtains that fluttered in the breeze. Teagan’s eyes flicked over the details without lingering. It was all very quaint. Very idyllic. Very… not her.

“And over here—the dining room! This is where we’ll have the rehearsal dinner. Oh! Wait until you see the courtyard at night—it’s strung with fairy lights, and it looks like something out of a dream.” Lydia’s voice was a constant stream of enthusiasm, her gestures animated as she pointed out every detail.

Teagan nodded occasionally, making noncommittal sounds of acknowledgment. But as Lydia paused mid-sentence, her hand fidgeting with the hem of her dress, Teagan immediately tensed.

“What?” Her voice came out sharper than intended.

Lydia hesitated, her usual buoyancy dimming slightly. “Well… there’s something I haven’t told you yet.”

Teagan’s arms crossed instinctively, her green eyes narrowing. “Lydia…”

“I was going to tell you—really, I was,” Lydia began, her words tumbling out in a rush. “But I knew you’d overthink it, and I figured it would just stress you out, and—”

“Out with it,” Teagan cut in, her tone brooking no nonsense.

Lydia sighed, folding her hands and looking at Teagan with an expression of cautious optimism. “Aidan Brooks is here. He’s Anthony’s best man.”

For a moment, Teagan froze. Her breath hitched, her jaw tightened, and her hand instinctively brushed the leather bracelet on her wrist, her fingers lingering on the hidden blade. The motion was automatic, unconscious.

Then the flicker of raw emotion in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, practiced composure.

“You’re kidding,” she said flatly.

“I’m not,” Lydia replied softly, her gaze searching Teagan’s face. “I know it’s not ideal, but he’s… different now. He’s not the same guy he was in college.”

Teagan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, dropping her bag with unnecessary force. The dull thud reverberated through the stone floor. “That’s convenient for him,” she said, her words precise and cutting. “But I haven’t forgotten who he was—or what he did.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” Lydia countered gently but firmly, her voice steady. “I’m just asking you to give him a chance. He regrets everything. You might be surprised.”

“Doubtful,” Teagan shot back, her arms crossing tighter.

“Teagan—”

“I’m here for you,” Teagan interrupted, her tone clipped. “That’s it. I’ll be civil, but don’t expect anything more.”

Lydia sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features, but she nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

The tension between them hung heavy as Lydia led Teagan down the hallway to her room. When they arrived, Lydia lingered in the doorway, her usual cheer dimmed but not extinguished.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Lydia said softly. Then, with a small smile that felt like a peace offering, she added, “I’ll come back in a bit. With wine.”

Teagan waited until Lydia was gone before letting her guard drop. She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze drifting over the room’s quaint details—the hand-carved wooden bed frame, the lace curtains, the fresh vase of flowers on the nightstand. It was beautiful. And yet, her mind remained elsewhere, spinning with the implications of Lydia’s revelation.

Aidan Brooks.

The last time she’d seen him was years ago, but the memory was still sharp, still raw. It wasn’t just a wound—it was a scar she’d buried deep but never truly let heal.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She opened it to find Lydia, smiling hesitantly, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“I thought we could toast to your arrival,” Lydia said, her voice light but her eyes careful. “And to… surviving the week?”

Teagan’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Survival. I can drink to that.”

On the small balcony outside her room, they sat in the fading light of sunset, the landscape bathed in hues of amber and gold. Teagan sipped her wine, the taste smooth and unfamiliar but grounding.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lydia murmured, her gaze on the rolling hills and vineyards stretching into the distance.

Teagan nodded, though her grip tightened on her glass. The beauty was undeniable, but so was the unease stirring in her chest.

As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, Teagan raised her glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to survival,” she said dryly, though the faintest flicker of vulnerability softened her tone.

Lydia clinked her glass with quiet hope. Teagan didn’t say it aloud, but she felt it too: the beginning of something she wasn’t ready to define.