27. Beautiful Memories

27. Beautiful Memories
A satisfied life is better than a successful life. Because our success is measured by others but our satisfaction is measured by our own soul, heart and mind.

GABRIELLA

I was deep in sleep when I felt someone shaking me—firm, insistent. Groggy and disoriented, I slowly blinked open my eyes to find Alejandro looming over me, dressed in casual clothes, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light.

Still half-asleep, I fumbled around the nightstand until I found my phone.
6:00 a.m.The screen’s glow made me wince. My first instinct was to be furious—what kind of person wakes someone up at the crack of dawn after the week we’d just had?

But before I could voice my irritation, he spoke, cutting through the haze in my mind. “Get ready soon. It’s time to go.”

A flicker of clarity passed through me.
We’re leaving?I instantly assumed we were returning to Mexico—back to reality, back to the chaos. I suppressed a sigh, dragged myself out of bed, and headed to the bathroom.

After my morning routine, I threw on a comfortable sundress, soft and light, something that caught the breeze with ease. I joined Alejandro downstairs, where a sleek, new convertible with an open roof gleamed under the pale morning sun. I blinked in surprise.

“New ride?” I teased, raising a brow.

He didn’t respond—just smirked, climbed into the driver’s seat, and waited for me to join him.

We rolled out of the driveway as dawn gave way to a gentle, golden morning. The sky was painted in muted pastels, and the cool wind whipped playfully through my hair. I leaned back in the seat, letting the wind kiss my cheeks and tangle my hair. The world felt still for once. Free. I hadn’t felt this weightless in a long time.

But as time passed, I noticed something odd—the landscape was shifting. We weren’t headed toward the airport. The high-rises and concrete blurred into rolling hills and clusters of palm trees. The roads narrowed, flanked by wildflowers and soft, untamed greenery.

“Where are we going?” I asked, turning to him.

Alejandro glanced at me briefly, then returned his eyes to the road. “To my beach house,” he said casually. “You’ve been working non-stop these past few days. I figured you deserved a little break.”

I stared at him, caught off guard. A break? From
him?

Forty-five minutes later, the ocean peeked into view—endless blue shimmering under the sun. Nestled along the pristine coastline stood a gorgeous, modern beach house, elegant yet warm, surrounded by tall palms that swayed gently in the breeze. The nameplate at the gate read Alejandro Martinez, carved into polished wood.

I gasped softly, unable to hide the joy bubbling up inside me. It felt like something out of a dream. Alejandro pulled into the driveway and slowed to a stop—but before he could even kill the engine, I pushed open the door, kicked off my sandals, and dashed toward the shore

“Gabriella—wait—!” I heard him call behind me, but I didn’t stop. My laughter trailed behind me like music on the wind as I ran barefoot across the warm sand, straight into the arms of the sea.

This was the first time in a long while I felt alive—and for a moment, just a moment, I forgot why I had ever come into Alejandro’s life to begin with.

The moment my bare feet touched the warm sand and the waves lapped against my ankles, something in me shifted. The salty breeze, the rhythmic sound of the ocean—it all hit me like a wave of emotion I wasn’t prepared for. My breath caught in my throat, and before I could stop them, tears spilled down my cheeks.

I was no longer in Rome.

In my mind, I was transported to the sun-drenched beaches of Colombia. I saw a familiar figure in a flowing floral gown—my mother—her laughter dancing through the air as she watched my younger brother dart along the shoreline, arms spread like wings. I saw myself, barely five, crouched in the sand with a plastic shovel and a bucket, utterly focused on building a lopsided sandcastle, blissfully unaware of what life would one day take from me.

The ache in my chest swelled.

A gentle tap on my shoulder brought me back to the present. I turned to find Alejandro standing behind me, concern etched into his features. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

I wiped my face quickly, trying to compose myself. “The sea… the beach… it reminded me of my mother. Of home. Of a time when everything was simple and happy. I just… miss her,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Without saying a word, Alejandro pulled me into his arms. I sank into the embrace, surprised by how natural it felt. He didn’t speak, just held me tightly until the storm within me began to settle.

After a few moments, he took my hand and led me back toward the beach house. It sat elevated on a wooden ramp, connected to the shore by a charming little bridge that creaked softly underfoot. A small garden surrounded the home, bursting with color—hibiscus, lilies, and neatly pruned bonsai trees framed the path like a living welcome.

The house itself was a beautiful contradiction—a two-story Italian-style bungalow with rustic stone chimneys and arching windows, exuding an old-world charm. Yet inside, it was sleek, modern, and effortlessly elegant. The floors were rich, dark wood, polished to a shine. The living room featured a snow-white couch and a stone fireplace, but what stole my breath was the view—a massive window facing the sea, offering an unbroken panorama of waves crashing gently against the shore.

To the left of the entrance was the dining area, understated and cozy. Unlike the ostentatious grandeur of the Martinez mansion, this house whispered luxury instead of screaming it. It felt more… human. More like home.

Plants thrived in every corner—hanging vines, ferns in ceramic pots, tiny succulents perched on bookshelves. The entire space felt alive, breathing serenity into my soul.

As I stood taking it all in, my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.

Alejandro laughed. “Sounds like someone’s hungry.”

I smiled sheepishly. “Very.”

“I’ll make breakfast. You go change into something more… Rome-appropriate. I’m taking you sightseeing,” he said with a wink.

My eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“I never joke about food or travel,” he replied with a grin, disappearing into the kitchen.

As I wandered the hallway toward the guest room, I caught my reflection in a mirror and smirked.
So this is what it feels like to go on a free luxury vacation with your enemy Not bad. Back in Colombia, there were no vacations, no lazy mornings—just corporate meetings and survival.

This? This felt like a dream I didn’t know I needed.

I stepped out onto the porch and sank into the soft embrace of the swinging sofa. The gentle creak of the ropes, the faint rustling of leaves, and the soothing crash of waves in the distance formed a serene symphony around me. The porch, much like the rest of the beach house, was a masterclass in understated elegance—minimalist yet deeply comforting. A patterned rug added a touch of warmth beneath my feet, potted plants lined the edges, and the forested perimeter where trees met the beach created the perfect frame for the view.

It was the kind of place you could lose yourself in during the golden hours of dawn or dusk, sipping coffee and watching the world drift by.

Eventually, I made my way upstairs, deciding to freshen up before breakfast. The bedroom I entered was as lavish as the suite we had stayed in previously—spacious, tastefully decorated, with plush linens spread across a large bed. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, and a glass door opened onto a private balcony with a stunning, uninterrupted view of the ocean. It looked like the kind of place you'd read about in glossy travel magazines.

The bathroom surprised me even more. It was a blend of rustic charm and contemporary luxury. Wooden flooring—something I’d never seen in a bathroom before—added an earthy warmth. At its center sat an elegant, bowl-shaped bathtub, made of smooth white marble with sleek black and chrome fixtures. One outlet sprayed water in a gentle rainfall effect, while a smaller hose-like faucet added practicality to the design. It was a space crafted for indulgence.

I changed into a soft pink V-neck dress, something flowy and perfect for a sunny day out. A pair of pink heels and matching accessories completed my look. Satisfied with my appearance, I headed down to the kitchen.

Alejandro was already at work, bent over the counter preparing breakfast. He looked relaxed, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up, revealing the sinew of his forearms. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, had white ceilings and wooden floors, giving it a warm, open feel. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, making the space glow.

He looked up and gave me a quick smile. “Perfect timing. Breakfast is almost ready.”

A few minutes later, he plated two servings of golden French toast and poured fresh orange juice into tall glasses. We ate together in companionable silence, and once finished, we slipped into the car, ready to begin our day of exploration.

“I may not be a professional guide,” he said with a playful smirk, “but I do consider myself a Rome regular. So, madam, allow me to show you around.”

I chuckled. “Lead the way, tour guide.”

Our first stop was the iconic Trevi Fountain.

As we approached, the sound of rushing water grew louder, and then—there it was. Even though I had never visited before, I recognized it immediately from books and encyclopedias. The Fontana di Trevi stood like a masterpiece carved out of time. Towering figures of Oceanus, tritons, and sea horses rose from a churning sea of marble, water pouring around them with an almost divine energy. The aqueduct that fed the fountain had once served the great Agrippa himself.

Alejandro and I stood quietly for a moment, soaking in its beauty. The marble gleamed in the sunlight, and coins sparkled in the basin, each representing a wish whispered to the universe.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a few coins, and following tradition, threw them over my shoulder, each toss carrying a hope I dared not say aloud.

Alejandro watched me, his eyes unreadable but soft. “Make good wishes?” he asked.

“The best kind,” I replied, smiling.

And in that moment—between stone gods, ancient water, and unspoken dreams—I felt something shift. A strange warmth settled in my chest, a flicker of something I hadn’t expected.

Maybe it was the city. Or maybe it was him.

Our next stop was the Palatine Hill.

Strategically perched 50 meters above the Tiber River, the Palatine is one of the most ancient parts of the city, steeped in legend and layered with history. Rock cuttings near the Temple of Cybele revealed traces of Rome's earliest settlement—evidence of life dating back to the 9th century BC. It felt surreal to walk where emperors once ruled, where the very bones of a civilization still whispered through sun-scorched stone.

The hill, once home to aristocrats and emperors, exuded a quiet dignity, as though it still remembered its royal inhabitants. Every corner was a reminder of the grandeur that once was. As we strolled along ancient ruins, Alejandro offered the occasional historical tidbit, though we were mostly lost in the ambiance—silent, reverent, and spellbound.

An hour passed in a blur, and we made our way to another gem nestled within the Palatine Hill: the Farnese Gardens.

Commissioned in the 16th century by Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, the gardens were a masterpiece in symmetry and elegance—a blend of manmade beauty and nature’s charm. Terraces unfolded like steps into the sky, dotted with pavilions, flowerbeds, trimmed lawns, and gurgling fountains. It wasn’t hard to imagine courtiers in rich brocades strolling arm-in-arm here, laughter mingling with the murmur of water.

As we wandered past ivy-covered pergolas and marbled walkways, Alejandro pointed out highlights of the Palatine: the House of Livia, Domus Flavia, and the impressive Baths of Septimius Severus. The semi-subterranean Cryptoporticus, with its shadowy corridors, gave off a hushed reverence. It felt like walking through a time capsule—a blend of a serene park and the crumbling might of ancient Rome.

By now, it was almost 2 p.m., and hunger made its presence known.

We took a 30-minute drive to a charming local eatery, Osteria Bonelli, tucked away from the tourist trails. It was rustic and inviting, the kind of place that promised authenticity. The smell of grilled seafood and fresh herbs hung heavy in the air.

“I want seafood,” I said, scanning the menu.

Without missing a beat, Alejandro ordered
everything—Linguine Piccole with Grilled Swordfish and Anchovy-Parsley Sauce, Grilled Shrimp with lemon and oregano, Spaghetti alle Vongole, and Slow-Roasted Salmon with fennel and citrus.

“You really don’t hold back,” I teased, half-impressed.

He grinned. “Food is the one luxury that should never be rationed.”

We devoured every bite. The dishes were rich, bright with flavor, and impeccably cooked. That lunch was a small celebration in itself.

Next on our list was Castel Sant’Angelo.

As we approached, the castle’s colossal, drum-like silhouette loomed over the Tiber—its ancient stones aglow in the late afternoon light. Originally built as a mausoleum for Emperor Hadrian and his family around AD 135, the structure had transformed over centuries into a fortress, a papal refuge, and now a national museum.

Alejandro guided me through its layers of history: how in AD 271, Emperor Aurelian had absorbed it into his defensive walls; how popes once used the
Passetto di Borgo, a secret elevated corridor, to escape in times of danger, smuggling out their most prized possessions.

It was haunting and majestic, and I found myself deeply moved by the resilience carved into every inch of stone. Rome didn’t just preserve history—it lived and breathed it.

By the time we wrapped up the tour, it was close to 6 p.m. The drive home was slower than expected due to evening traffic, and the city lights sparkled like jewels as we made our way back. It was 8 p.m. when we finally reached the beach house.

Exhausted but content, I slipped away to my room and indulged in a long, luxurious bath. The warm water soothed my aching feet and washed away the day’s dust. I changed into soft cotton pajamas and padded up to the terrace barefoot, drawn by the moonlight.

The terrace was magical.

A cozy sofa wrapped around an electric fireplace in the center. The night sky was a masterpiece—an endless canvas studded with stars, the moon casting silver shadows across the water. I hugged my knees to my chest and exhaled slowly, letting the peace seep into my bones.

Moments later, Alejandro appeared, pushing a large cart laden with a five-course dinner. He didn’t say much—just smiled and handed me a plate.

We dined quietly under the stars, the crackle of the fire and the crash of distant waves filling the space between us. No words were needed. It was a shared silence, warm and intimate in its own way.

As we stood up to head to our rooms, I felt a quiet wave of relief. Despite how close Alejandro and I had grown, I was still grateful we had separate rooms—my notorious cuddling problem didn’t need another awkward episode, especially not with him.

Just as I turned to leave, Alejandro paused, his voice casual but laced with intrigue.

“You’ll need to be up early tomorrow—we’re going somewhere,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

And just like that, he walked away without another word, leaving me in the soft glow of the terrace lights, heart fluttering, mind spinning with curiosity.

Where were we going?

I didn’t know.

But the thought of another adventure, especially with him, sent a thrill through me I couldn’t quite shake.

Sleep would not come easy that night—not with all this bubbling excitement coursing through me.