6. Ravi Bonetti

Three months later...

Time has a strange way of passing when you're trying to forget. Five months. One hundred and fifty days. Thousands of failed attempts to erase from memory the taste of a kiss, the sound of a soft laugh in the middle of the night, the warmth of a body I never found again. Five months since she disappeared from my life as if she had never existed—leaving behind only a thin bracelet on the floor of my bedroom, proof that that night hadn't been a figment of my imagination.

But in a way, it might as well have been, because after that night, I never saw her again. No sign, no name, no clue. It was like trying to find a ghost in London. I didn't even know her last name, and the truth is, I didn't really look. Part of me told myself it was better that way. That it was just a moment out of character. That I was drunk, vulnerable, too broken to know what I was doing.

There was something about that girl that awakened an interest I thought had died long ago, but I convinced myself it was just the alcohol speaking so loudly in my ears that I'd settled for the first woman I could take to my bed. I told myself I didn't have time for that. Anything that wasn't work—and after that relapse, I focused solely on that. Of course, keeping my bed empty was never really an option, but I still don't know their names. It's easier that way. Not giving hope to any of the women my best friend introduces me to when we go out together.

And yet, there's still a part of me that wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night, swearing I can still smell her hair on the pillow.

I sighed, rubbing my face with my hands before pulling my jacket forward and stepping out of the elevator, finishing a reply to an email on my phone. We were on our way to another informal meeting with investors. Pedro had found a new café, claiming it was charming and discreet. Ideal for quick conversations and lighter meetings. The deal today would bring us a profit too attractive to pass up, and there's nothing better to please clients than a well-made coffee. Even if Pedro insists on keeping things informal, which always makes me nervous.

"Don't bother making that funeral face, Ravi," Pedro muttered at my side as we walked along the pavement. "It's just a meeting, and afterward I'll take you to lunch. I promise it's not a pub."

"The last time you promised me that, I woke up with a headache and no dignity," I murmured, crossing my arms. "Do you remember?"

He laughed out loud. "That day was an exception. And you needed it. It had been a while since I'd seen you drink that much."

"Maybe because the next day we had to fly to Japan?"

"But we went, and you hooked up with that model—what was her name again?"

"You know I don't know her name," I said, rolling my eyes and putting my phone in my pocket.

"Uh-huh. I just want to see how long this is going to last, since I told you Julia wants to set you up with a friend."

"Your wife already has too many friends."

"And you need one."

I didn't answer. Because he was right. I wasn't smiling. Not really. Not since Helena.

The café was on a corner, with a charming façade and large windows. A strong aroma of fresh coffee escaped through the door as we entered, and for a brief moment, that scent transported me somewhere else. Somewhere lighter.

"Sit over there; I'll order," Pedro said, pointing to one of the tables near the window.

I nodded and settled in, opening my phone out of habit, though I wasn't really seeing anything. I opened my laptop on the table and began searching for the data we'd need to present once the clients arrived. And while the file was loading, I let my eyes wander across the bright, cozy space.

A subtle sound caught my attention. The sound of a soft, feminine laugh.

I looked up, and the world stopped.

Her.

She was behind the counter, a light apron tied around her waist, her hair pinned up in a casual way, and yet still so beautiful that my breath caught for a second. She had her back to me, arranging cups, and when she turned around, I lost all the air in my lungs.

The girl from the bar.

My heart lurched, as if it had just remembered it existed. I took a moment to stand, because my legs felt frozen at the sight of a ghost. But when I finally approached the counter, she looked up, and our worlds collided again.

"Can I... help you?" she asked, her voice steady, but with a slight tremor that perhaps only I noticed.

"A double espresso, please," I replied, the only thing I could think to say.

She nodded, turning to prepare the order. And I stood there watching her movements from above the glass counter, which let me see only her shoulders and the outline of her body between the displayed pastries, trying to understand if she was really there, or if my brain had finally snapped.

"You work here now?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice came out lower than I intended. "I didn't find you at the bar anymore."

She hesitated for a second, but answered, "Yes. I started a few months ago. Unfortunately, they didn't think I was a good employee anymore."

"I'm sorry about that. You just disappeared."

The words escaped before I could stop them. She froze for an instant, but continued working with her back to me at the coffee machine.

"I didn't know I needed to let you know."

She turned around and noticed I was at the lower wooden section where orders were handed out. Hesitantly, she approached with my cup. My gaze fell, instinctively, to the apron tied around her body—and then I saw it. A discreet but visible curve. A gentle swell that hadn't been there before.

My heart raced.

Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the cup on the counter, and for a second that felt like an eternity, our eyes met. In hers, I saw something that stole the air from my lungs: fear.

"Ravi!" Pedro nudged my shoulder, his voice pulling me back. "Come on, the Venture team is here!"

I looked back at Manu, but she was already stepping away. One step back, then another, as if she were fleeing. Without a word, she turned and ran into the kitchen.

Leaving behind the smell of coffee and a doubt that now screamed louder than anything else.