The next morning, it was almost 10 a.m. when Ava’s phone rang.

  “Hey Ava, listen sweetie,” Logan’s voice was cautious. “My dad just called. He’s coming to Paso Robles with some investors next week, and he wants me at the restaurant to meet them. I couldn’t say no. You know my dad.”

  Logan’s father and his “the world revolves around him” attitude were nothing new to Ava. “Oh, it’s fine, Logan, I understand,” she said, masking her disappointment. There was no point in rehashing Logan’s daddy issues again, hoping that one day she’d be free of his shadow. “We’ll find another time. Maybe next year.”

  It was hard for Logan to say, but deep down, she felt that some distance would be good for Ava. After a moment of silence, she spoke.

  “I want you to go alone. We can’t cancel the Wine Academy, it’s already arranged. Enjoy your time away from everything. My father is just being my father. Let me deal with him.”

  Ava suddenly felt a sense of hope at the thought of being away from the winery and the restaurant. She embraced the possibility of serenity in solo travel.

  “I will miss you though,” she said, from a deeper part of her heart, one she didn’t know existed before.

  Logan was all the family Ava had, yet she refrained from telling her what had been bothering her for so long, even before her mother’s death. Ava couldn’t trust her mother, or her friend, or anyone else. She couldn’t tell anyone. “Tell no one about it,” Grandma had told her.

  Time flew by as the fragrant Mediterranean spring soothed Ava’s heart in Rome. She explored places she had never seen and met people she had never known. Days passed in the blink of an eye, surrounded by sweet moments and gentle occurrences. She almost forgot her troubles, until the life of her butterfly was about to come to an end.

  On her last day in Rome, Ava planned to take it slow and easy, beginning with a cappuccino under the warm morning sun. She then took a leisurely walk around Trastevere, snapping a few photos along the way. She wore her lucky blue dress, the one she had bought with her mother in Los Angeles, their last mother-daughter trip together. It felt like an eternity ago, how the two of them had walked all the way from the beach to the hotel in sandy slippers, savoring the sweet taste of vanilla ice cream, its sweetness mingling with the salty tang of the ocean air on their lips.

  The thought of returning to California didn’t bother Ava anymore, but it didn’t bring her any happiness or relief, either. Maybe she had expected too much from such a short get away. She considered extending her stay in Europe and visiting her friend Miriam in Paris. She probably would have, if it weren’t for the business-class tickets and her deep longing to see Collins, her fifteen-year-old chestnut horse.

  It was late afternoon when Ava finished her lunch at the tiny corner restaurant. Her eyes wandered to an art gallery just a few steps away. The old wooden door stood wide open, inviting people in and out as if it were breathing. Ava’s gaze landed on a tall abstract painting displayed next to the door. Despite the distance, she could clearly see the bold brushstrokes, vibrant colors dancing across the canvas. She entertained the exciting thought of buying a painting for L’uva. Logan would love such a gift from Rome.

  Feeling appropriately attired in her cute blue dress, Ava walked toward the gallery door. The interior of the gallery was much larger than she’d expected from the outside. That tiny wooden door led into a vast space, filled with dozens of paintings. Ava couldn’t help but feel as if she had stepped into Alice’s Wonderland.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The gallery was crowded. Some people, clearly tourists like herself, were snapping photos with their phones. There were also local Italian women in high heels, talking all at once. Ava wondered if they were really listening to each other, or if they were just talking over one another, lost in their own worlds.

  Ava wandered around the gallery, stopping to study one of the mid-sized paintings more closely. She could almost see a man hugging a tree in the abstract brush strokes. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Daring to glance at the price tag beneath the painting, she caught sight of the zero digits and froze, holding her breath. She quickly turned toward the front door. A tall man was walking briskly toward her, moving fast and steady. Before Ava could take another step, he was already beside her, pointing at the painting she had just been admiring and speaking something in Italian:

  “Signorina, dimmelo, ti prego. Vedi bellezza o …….?”

  “Excuse me, I don’t speak Italian, solo Inglese.” Ava interrupted, almost choking in her own voice. She turned back to the painting, trying to hide the blush creeping across her cheeks from the man's charm. That was when her world suddenly came alive. She felt like Alice after eating a piece of cake.

  “Signorina, I saw you admiring this painting,” he said, his words softening as he carefully rephrased them in English, flavored with a playful splash of Italian accent. “May I ask, do you see beauty or suffering when you look at it?”

  Ava’s sensitive nose caught the subtle scent of his perfume, mingling with the warmth of his skin’s chemistry. He stood just behind her, his voice a little too close to her ear as he spoke, his hand gesturing toward the painting, moving in sync with his words. Ava glanced at the painting again, trying to collect her thoughts. This time, it wasn’t a man hugging a tree; it was a man holding a woman, perhaps pleading for forgiveness.

  “I don’t think I see suffering,” Ava finally spoke, her voice shy. “It’s beautiful. I see emotions that can be beautiful in a sad way. What were you trying to express when you painted it?”

  “Impressive opinion,” he said. “I wish I could paint but I am not as talented,” he said. “The artist, Carla Branero, is a good friend of mine. This painting is my favorite, I just wanted to learn what you thought of it.”

  “Oh, I thought you might be the artist, since you asked such an interesting question,” said Ava as she slowly turned to face him again. She met his gaze, her eyes lingering on his marine blue eyes framed by dark lashes. His slightly bridged nose was proudly presenting his wide smile underneath and the deep dimple on his left cheek.

  “Well, I may not be the artist, but I’m the owner now. I just bought it,” he said proudly, then introduced himself. “My name is Alessandro.”

  “I’m Ava, nice to meet you and congratulations,” Ava said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said Alessandro Sephianos, the crown prince of Ars Pheria, heir to throne, and son to Emperor Sephianos. He looked into Ava’s green eyes and gently kissed her hand.

  I, the loyal Ghull of the Asaha, witnessed the birth of a prince.

  A prince cursed with fire in his heart in the land of the white mists.

  A prince and a creature of mud, who will master the fumes of the flames.

  A prince and a descendant of Romans,

  Not like his father, not like his grandfather.

  The rare gem of the “Ars Pherians”, as such they named themselves.

  Whereas I gifted them no Ars, nor Pheria.

  A prince, born to a purpose, as such he thought himself.

  Whereas I gifted him no grace, nor emperia.

  I described the prince as neither mud nor fire. I advised the Asaha to watch the prince grow and master the ways of fire in his heart. He would either thrive from the ashes or get choked in the fumes. I was proven to be right when Alessandro wanted more. Then, he wanted so much more…