Family Ties

Ava

As we approached the front door, it swung open before we could ring the bell. My father sat in his wheelchair, his broad shoulders and commanding presence undiminished by his seated position. At sixty-five, George Silver was still an imposing figure, with salt-and-pepper hair and the same green eyes I'd inherited.

"There they are!" he boomed, his face splitting into a wide grin. "My girls... and the man brave enough to take on my daughter."

"Dad," I warned, leaning down to kiss his cheek. "Behave."

"Grandpa!" Emilia darted past me, throwing herself into his lap with practiced ease. He hugged her tightly, then set her back on her feet with a theatrical grunt.

"Getting too big for that, peanut," he told her, though we all knew he'd never refuse her hugs. His attention turned to Alex, who stood slightly behind me. "And you must be the famous Alex Russo."

"Sir," Alex stepped forward, extending his hand. "It's an honor to meet you. I've admired your work in sustainable manufacturing for years."

My father's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly pleased by Alex's knowledge of his pre-accident career. He grasped Alex's hand firmly. "Strong handshake. That's a good start. Come in, come in. No point standing on ceremony—or in doorways."

He wheeled back, gesturing for us to enter. The house was warm and inviting, with wide halls and open spaces that accommodated his wheelchair while still feeling homey. The living room featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Washington, the lights of Seattle twinkling in the distance.

"Beautiful home," Alex commented, handing my father the bottle of wine he'd brought. "The view is spectacular."

"One of the perks of being forced to move," my father replied, examining the label with approval. "Good taste in wine. Another point in your favor."

"Dad," I said warningly.

"What?" He looked at me innocently. "Can't a father evaluate his future son-in-law?"

I felt my cheeks heat. "We haven't even set a date yet. Maybe slow down on the 'son-in-law' talk."

"Fine, fine," he conceded, winking at Alex. "Plenty of time for that. Dinner's almost ready. Maria's made her famous paella."

My father's housekeeper, Maria, appeared in the doorway as if summoned. "Ten minutes," she confirmed with a warm smile. "Hola, Ava, Emilia. And you must be Mr. Russo."

"Alex, please," he corrected with an easy charm that seemed to work on everyone except me.

"Alex," Maria repeated, clearly won over already. "Would you like something to drink? Wine? Beer? Mr. Silver has an excellent collection."

"Whatever George is having is fine with me," Alex replied diplomatically.

"Scotch it is, then," my father said approvingly. "The good stuff, Maria. The Macallan."

As Maria bustled off to get their drinks, my father wheeled toward the bar area. "Come sit, Alex. Tell me about this clean energy project I've been hearing so much about."

Alex followed, leaving Emilia and me alone for a moment. "He seems nice," Emilia whispered, watching Alex chat easily with my father. "For a fake fiancé."

I hushed her quickly, glancing to make sure they hadn't heard. "Remember what we talked about. Grandpa doesn't know it's not real."

Emilia nodded seriously. "I know. I'm just saying, he's not as bad as I thought. And he got me really cool books."

"The way to your heart is through science fiction, huh?" I teased.

She shrugged, unrepentant. "I still don't want him to be my dad," she clarified. "But maybe he can be your friend. You need more friends, Mom."

The simple observation hit harder than she could know. She was right—between running a company and raising her, I'd let my social life dwindle to almost nothing. The fact that my nine-year-old had noticed was both humbling and slightly embarrassing.

"I have friends," I protested weakly.

Emilia gave me a skeptical look. "Rosa doesn't count. She works for us."

Before I could respond, my father called us over. "Girls! Come join us. Alex was just telling me about the innovations they're developing for solar energy storage."

We moved to join them, Emilia immediately climbing onto my father's lap despite his earlier comments about her getting too big. I sat on the sofa, uncomfortably aware of Alex in the armchair adjacent, watching our family dynamics with interested eyes.

"So," my father said, handing Emilia a small sip of his water, "how exactly did this engagement come about? The papers made it sound sudden, but surely there must have been signs. You two have known each other for years."

I tensed, realizing we hadn't fully aligned on our cover story. Alex and I exchanged a quick glance, a silent negotiation passing between us.

"It was unexpected," Alex began carefully, "but in retrospect, perhaps inevitable."

My father raised an eyebrow. "Inevitable? That's not the word I would have used based on what Ava's told me about you over the years."

I winced. I may have occasionally described Alex in less than flattering terms during conversations with my father.

Alex laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "I'm sure she had her reasons. We didn't exactly start on the best terms."

"That's putting it mildly," I muttered.

"But," Alex continued, his eyes finding mine, "the best relationships often start that way, don't they? All that passion and intensity, just needing to find the right... channel."

There was something in his voice, a deliberate double meaning that made heat climb up my neck. My father was nodding appreciatively, oblivious to the subtext.

"That's true enough," he agreed. "Her mother and I couldn't stand each other when we first met. I thought she was a stuck-up princess, she thought I was an arrogant jerk." His eyes softened at the memory. "Took us six months of fighting before we realized it was just foreplay."

"Dad!" I exclaimed, mortified. "Emilia is right here."

"What's foreplay?" Emilia asked immediately.

"A type of board game," my father improvised smoothly. "Very boring. For adults only."

Emilia wrinkled her nose. "Grown-ups are weird."

"You have no idea, peanut," my father agreed, shooting me a mischievous look. "So, Alex, when did you realize my daughter was more than just a business rival?"

Alex's gaze settled on me, something soft and almost vulnerable crossing his features. "It was at the Lawrence Foundation Gala, about eight months ago. Ava was debating climate policy with Senator Morris, taking him apart point by point while never once raising her voice or losing her composure. She was brilliant, fierce... magnificent, really."

I stared at him, stunned. He remembered that? I'd almost forgotten the encounter myself—just another stuffy charity event where I'd gotten trapped in conversation with a climate-denying politician.

"I watched her," Alex continued, his voice dropping slightly, "and thought, 'There she is. The most formidable woman in the room. Maybe in the city.' And instead of feeling threatened or competitive, I just felt... admiration. Attraction. I wanted to know her, the real her, not just the business persona we all wear like armor."

A heavy silence fell. Even Emilia seemed to sense the weight of the moment, her usual fidgeting stilled.

"Well," my father said finally, a smile tugging at his lips, "that's quite the answer. And you, Ava? When did you know?"

"I..." I faltered, caught off guard by Alex's seemingly heartfelt confession. Was this part of the act? It seemed so specific, so genuine. It didn't feel like something fabricated for my father's benefit.

Alex watched me, waiting along with my father for my response. I couldn't read his expression—was that a challenge in his eyes? Amusement? Something else entirely?

"It was the Martinez proposal," I found myself saying. "When your team stepped back to let that small Hispanic-owned solar company take the lead, even though you could have crushed them or absorbed them. You chose collaboration over competition, empowerment over acquisition." I paused, surprised by my own candor. "It was the first time I thought there might be more to you than the ruthless businessman everyone talks about."

A flicker of surprise crossed Alex's face, quickly masked by a warm smile. "That was just good business sense," he demurred. "Diversity in the marketplace breeds innovation."

"No," I insisted, the memory becoming clearer as I spoke. "It was more than that. I saw how you worked with them, how you genuinely wanted them to succeed on their own terms. It wasn't a photo op or a PR move. You believed in them."

My father was watching this exchange with keen interest, his eyes darting between us. "Sounds like you two have been paying closer attention to each other than either of you realized," he observed dryly.

Thankfully, Maria chose that moment to announce dinner was ready, saving us from further psychoanalysis.