214. Vesta and Caos: a regret that may come back in the future

While Caos continued his violet reign in Madrid, another ghost from his past had been quietly living her own life in the city where their paths had first crossed.

Milan had not forgotten her.

And, despite everything that had happened since, she had not completely forgotten him.

Well, Vesta was in Milan.

Vesta had once been one of Caos’s most passionate flames.

Italian. Fiery. Elegant. Unafraid.

For a short period of time, she had stood close enough to the storm to feel its heat.

And then she had stepped away.

Not because she stopped caring.

Perhaps that was the problem.

She cared enough to understand what standing beside Caos would eventually mean.

Caos did not live an ordinary life.

He did not wake up and simply go to work.He broke records before breakfast.

Love was not his choice.

He crossed countries at impossible speeds.He scored goals that made physics look like an outdated suggestion.

Governments knew his name.

Kings knew his name.

Football legends spoke about him.

Hundreds of millions watched him.

And now a princess carried his child.

Vesta had once wanted to be part of that world.

Then she realized that wanting something and being ready for it were two different things.

So she chose another path.

Years later, she was still living in Milan, in a sleek apartment overlooking the Navigli canals.

Sunlight entered through enormous windows every morning.

Her apartment was filled with paintings, fashion sketches, books, flowers, and photographs from places she had visited for work.

Nothing about it screamed loneliness.

Vesta had built a life.

Her modeling career had changed as well.

She no longer depended on the runway.

She had become a creative director and occasional runway curator for one of Italy's most prestigious fashion houses, combining fashion with photography, architecture, music, and visual storytelling.

She still walked in special collections.

But increasingly, she preferred standing behind the camera.

Creating.

Directing.

Building something that belonged to her.

She had dated.

A few artists.

A few entrepreneurs.

A photographer.

One very charming architect who lasted almost six months.

Nothing serious.

Nothing that survived the quiet questions that appeared after midnight.

Her friends occasionally joked about it.

Vesta always smiled.

Then changed the subject.

Because there was one name she never discussed publicly.

Caos.

She still watched every match.

Every impossible goal.Every violet explosion across a football field.

Caos had made his name known to the wolrd

Every time the stadium went silent because nobody understood what they had just witnessed.

And sometimes—

she remembered.

Vesta sat beside the open window.

The canals below reflected the lights of Milan.

Her friend Elena sat across from her with two glasses of wine.

The television was muted.

A replay was playing.

Caos.

Again.

And Once again. 

Even harder.

A violet blur.A ridiculous strike.

The ball disappeared into the upper corner.

Vesta smiled despite herself.

Elena noticed.

“You still watch every match.”

Vesta looked at the screen.

“I still watch football.”

“You watch him.”

A small silence.

Vesta laughed.

“Perhaps.”

Elena leaned back.

“Do you regret it?”

Vesta didn't answer immediately.

Rain touched the window.

Finally, she spoke.

“I don't know.”

“You loved him.”

“Yes.”

“You still do?”

Vesta looked toward the television.

“I don't know if love disappears.”

She paused.

“Sometimes it changes shape.”

Elena said nothing.

Vesta continued.

“I still remember what it felt like to stand beside him. Everything was louder. The world seemed larger.”

She smiled faintly.

“He was chaos. Beautiful, dangerous, completely consuming chaos.”

Her expression changed.

“I told him I wanted more time. I wanted to understand him. I wanted to be the person who could stand beside him when everything became too loud.”

She lowered her eyes.

“But I wasn't ready.”

The replay showed Caos celebrating another goal.

Vesta watched quietly.

“The storm was too strong.”

She took a slow breath.

“I was a flame trying to dance with lightning.”

Elena looked at her.

“And Leonor?”

That question stayed between them.

Vesta's smile disappeared.

“The pregnancy hurt.”

A pause.

“Not because I hate her. I don't.”

She looked toward the rain.

“It's something stranger than jealousy.”

“What?”

“The feeling that I once stood near the beginning of something extraordinary.”

Her voice became quieter.

“And then I walked away.”

Elena said nothing.

Vesta continued.

“Maybe that was the right decision. Maybe it wasn't.”

She looked at the lights reflected in the canal.

“I chose safety.”

Another pause.

“And now I wonder what my life would have looked like if I had chosen the storm.”

She smiled.

“But wondering isn't the same as regretting.”

That distinction mattered.

Vesta had learned it over the years.

“I have my work.”

She gestured toward the apartment.

“My own life. My own name. My own future.”

Then she looked back at Caos on the screen.

“But sometimes…”

Her voice almost disappeared.

“Sometimes I still remember his eyes.”

Elena smiled gently.

Vesta continued.

“He looked at me once as if I were the only calm place in his entire world.”

The room became quiet.

“Those are the memories that don't leave.”

Vesta had also begun speaking privately at events concerning the pressures of the fashion industry.

Not about Caos.

Never about Caos.

She spoke about identity.

Public image.

The pressure to remain beautiful while feeling exhausted.

The strange loneliness of being constantly watched.

The difference between being desired and being understood.

She had become an advocate for mental health within her industry, particularly for young models entering a world that could consume people before they understood who they were.

And quietly, without announcing it, she began donating to youth football programs around Milan.

Small academies.

Equipment.

Training grounds.

Scholarships.

Nobody knew exactly why.

Except perhaps Vesta.

Sometimes she wondered if she was helping those children because of Caos.

Perhaps.

But she also remembered the boy beneath the legend.

The boy who had once loved football before the world turned that love into something much larger.

When journalists occasionally asked about her past, she always gave the same answer.

“Some flames are meant to burn bright and then become beautiful memories.”

Then she moved on.

She never sold the story.

Never exposed him.

Never tried to attach herself to his fame.

That was her victory.

She had become something without him.

Thousands of kilometers away, Caos sat alone in the mansion garden.

The night was quiet.

A report rested in his hands.

The maids had compiled it discreetly.

Vesta.

Milan.

Creative director.

Fashion.

Charity.

Single.

Successful.

Private.

Healthy.

Happy.

Caos stopped reading.

A photograph had been attached to the report.

Vesta.

Older than the girl he remembered.

But unmistakably her.

That same confidence.

That same fire.

For a moment, the mansion disappeared.

He remembered Milan.

The streets.The lights.

Her laughter.

The way she used to look at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

He remembered how quickly everything had happened.

How intense it had been.How little time they had given themselves.

Caos lowered the photograph.

“She was a flame.”

His voice was barely audible.

“Bright.”

A pause.

“Beautiful.”

Another.

“Unforgettable.”

Zeraphina approached from behind.

She had already understood what he was reading.

“She is doing well.”

Caos nodded.

“I see that.”

“She still watches your matches.”

He smiled faintly.

“Of course she does.”

Zeraphina stood beside him.

“You remember her.”

“I remember all of them.”

Caos looked at the photograph again.

“But remembering isn't the same as wanting to return.”

Zeraphina said nothing.

Caos continued.

“She wanted more time with me.”

His expression darkened slightly.

“I couldn't give it to her then.”

The garden remained silent.

“I was too consumed by the storm.”

He folded the report.

“I thought becoming stronger would solve everything.”

A faint violet glow moved through his eyes.

“It didn't.”

Zeraphina looked at him.

“What would you tell her now?”

Caos thought about it.

For once, there was no immediate answer.

Then he smiled.

“I'd tell her I'm glad she chose herself.”

Zeraphina's expression softened.

Caos looked toward Madrid.

“Let her shine in her own light.”

He placed the report on the table.

“She doesn't need me anymore.”

A pause.

“And I don't need to pull the past back into the present just because it still has a heartbeat.”

Zeraphina nodded.

That was different from the Caos she had known before.

The old Caos would have chased every unfinished thing.

The new Caos understood something else.

Some stories were meant to remain unfinished.

Not because they had failed.

Because they had already given each person what they were supposed to carry forward.

Caos looked once more at Vesta's photograph.

“I hope she's happy.”

He smiled.

“Truly.”

The wind moved through the garden.

Violet energy flickered around his fingers before disappearing.

The past had spoken again.

Vesta remained in Milan.

Caos remained in Madrid.

Two lives.

Two fires.

One old memory.

And neither of them needed to burn the other to prove that it had once been real.

Caos stood.

The mansion waited behind him.

Leonor.

The unborn child.The three maids.

One claim to tell a soul.

The foundation.

Football.

The future.

His life had become too large to live backward.

He walked toward the house.

Behind him, the photograph remained on the table for another few seconds.

Then the wind turned the page.

And Vesta disappeared from view.

The violet storm kept moving forward.

To be continued...