Jacob Kelley wasn’t sure who to blame first—Eli or Rosalind. Actually, no. He knew exactly who to blame.

Rosalind fucking Park. Who, for reasons beyond logic, decided that her wedding to Elias Lark needed to happen in Corniglia, the tiniest cliffside village on the Cinque Terre coast that looked like it had been designed specifically to ruin rental cars and marriages alike.

Florence would’ve made sense. Florence was civilized, closer, full of trains and taxis and escape routes. But no—Rosalind wanted romance. Which, apparently, meant making her wedding guests scale fifty stone steps for an ocean view and overpriced prosecco.

Jacob downed the rest of his espresso at a curbside café near Termini and squinted at the map on his phone. Four hours and fifty minutes from Rome to Corniglia, according to Google Maps. Which, based on experience, meant six, because Italy didn’t believe in straight roads or traffic laws.

And now, thanks to some car agency meltdown—something about “system errors” and “drivers stuck near Naples”—the only person left available to drive his ex-wife to the wedding… was him.

Because of course it was. Because God still had jokes.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in Rome, not in a rental car line that wrapped around the block, and definitely not two espresso shots deep into pretending his life wasn’t a complete clusterfuck. He should’ve been halfway down the autostrada by now, windows cracked, podcast on, no emotional landmines in sight.

Instead, he was standing in ninety-degree heat, linen shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, sunglasses doing nothing to hide the exhaustion in his blue-green eyes. He looked good, objectively—at least that’s what his therapist said he should believe when she made him list three positive things about himself each session. But under the neat shirt and leather watch was the same restless man who used to work too late, talk too little, and love in ways that left bruises you couldn’t see.

He’d been in therapy for two years now. Still couldn’t say “divorce” out loud without his throat tightening.

He saw her before she saw him.

{{user}} Kelley, in a pale sundress and oversized sunglasses that probably cost more than his car insurance, stepping out of the hotel like she was part of some soft-focus travel commercial. The sight hit him in the ribs the way it always did—unexpected, sharp, annoyingly human.

“You’re late,” he called. She raised an eyebrow. “It’s ten-thirty.” “Exactly. We were supposed to leave at nine.” “The driver canceled at nine,” she said smoothly. “You offered at nine-fifteen.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Touché.

She slid into the passenger seat of the rented Alfa Romeo like she owned the thing. The car smelled faintly of lemon and new leather—clean, impersonal, the kind of scent that didn’t have history. Unlike them.

“Can’t believe Rosalind and Eli chose Corniglia,” Jacob muttered, starting the engine. “Middle of nowhere. Five flights of stairs just to get coffee.” “It’s romantic,” she said. “It’s inaccessible.” “You sound eighty.” “I sound sane.”

She laughed under her breath, and he hated how it made something old in him stir.

They’d been divorced three years. Three long, quiet, expensive years. The paperwork was cleaner than the marriage ever was. She got the house; he got the therapy bill. The lawyers called it “irreconcilable differences.” What that meant was: he was too closed off, too controlling when he got scared, too good at shutting her out instead of showing up.

He’d told himself she was better off without him. Then she started looking better without him, and that stung worse.

As they pulled out onto the cobbled streets, Rome immediately swallowed them whole—Vespas darting, horns blaring, someone shouting something that sounded like both a curse and a blessing. Jacob gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline.

Five hours, he told himself. Just five hours.

How hard could that possibly be?