Unconventional (The Manhattanites #4) Read Free Page A

having children with Jemma might destroy Rocco and me if we stayed in the relationship for too long.
     

 

    Damn Vive Farnworth! My career is O-V-E-R
    Jemma
    Present Day
    The Girasoli Garment Company Corporate Office, Milan, Italy
    Merda!
    On a scale from one to ten. One being…craporama. Ten being…the effin’ fudgesicle worst day of my cat-litter stinking life. That day, the day after my couture fashion collection had hit the European runways, I, Jemma Fereti, former runway supermodel turned fashion designer, was having an eleven.
    Yup. That’s way worse than smelling cat pee. Trust me.
    Damn that Vive Farnworth at Debauchery magazine and her nasty ass editorial.
    With my cell in my hand, I glared at the article on the screen so hard I thought my corneas would surely catch on fire. Or worse, my eyeballs might just pop out of their socket and soar across the room as two Ping-Pong balls, bouncing off Lex, Taddy, and Blake, who stood before me.
    Vive’s headline read, “Jemma Couture’s NEW Fashion Collection is Shit.”
    That was exactly what it said. Shit. Clear as the Tuscan sun and to the point. I plus fashion equals…poop.
    My fashion collection that season which I’d so fondly titled Death Star Galactica was a failure.
    This was bad. So very bad.
    Almost as horrific as the time I’d learned my career as Europe’s highest paid runway model was over. Dead in the water. Overnight, I’d become…unbookable. Why? Cause I’d turned thirty-frickin’-five. The fashion industry was ruthless. Hence why that afternoon I was freaking the fudge out.
    Almost as bad as the time my madre had passed away and I’d told my padre at the funeral that I was in a poly relationship with two of the most wonderful men on the planet.
    I’d thought he’d be happy for me. Didn’t he want to see my needs were being taken care of? That I was A-Okay.
    Umm. No!
    Giving an ultimatum, he’d argued, “I didn’t spend over a million dollars, put you in Milano’s best schools, and raise you to be a signora to have you turn into the laughingstock of Italy. You’re not a whore. Either they go or I do.”
    Cool as gelato, I’d kept calm, but had eventually lost my patience and declared, “ Padre , I didn’t survive a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery in my thirties to have you tell me how to live my friggin’ life. Arrivederci .”
    The Big C and little ta-ta was what I had. But the Big C and little ta-ta isn’t who I am. No fucking way, my darlings. I refuse to let it define me. I’m a fighter. I’m a survivor.
    Regardless, my heart broke that day my padre had protested my relationship. He’d never understand, so we hadn’t talked since. Did I miss him? Sì. But I had to live my life by my rules, not his. Maybe I was selfish. After my diagnosis and treatment, I realized life goes by in a blink, and it’s too short to not do as you please. And I am doing exactly that.
    Which leads me to the third worst moment of my so-called fabulous life. I already told ‘ya what it was…
    That day was almost as scary as the time the doctor had said, “Jemma, you have breast cancer.” Mentally, I’d never recovered from the mastectomy. Physically, Milan’s top plastic surgeon had reconstructed my breasts after I’d kicked the Big C in the ass. To be honest, they looked better than they did before the diagnosis. Implants. Never thought I’d have two artificial silicone pillows put in me, but damn, they look fucking fabulous.
    I have been cancer-free for the two years. Knock on wood. My breasts seem and sometimes feel real, but having mine removed wasn’t just a shock to my system. Cancer had destroyed my sense of self. My boyfriends don’t see the fear I have: that it’ll come back, that one day I could get sick again. I wouldn’t survive the next time around, I already knew it. More about that later. Much later. I need to keep my mind on work.
    One would think after having their father disown them, experiencing the