Chapter 10

The gravel crunched under the car's tires as we pulled up to James's mansion. Through the windows, I could see the dining room lit up—the same room where I'd once served coffee while Clarissa critiqued my pour. Ten years of memories pressed against the glass.

"We don't have to do this," I said.

Dante switched off the engine. "Yes, we do." He turned to look at me. "They need to see you're still standing."

I tugged at my black dress. Twelve weeks, and already nothing fit properly. The fabric clung to the slight curve I was trying to hide.

"Stop fidgeting," Dante said quietly. "You look perfect."

His certainty steadied me, even as my stomach churned—morning sickness, nerves, or maybe both.

The butler—not Thompson, they'd fired him last year—opened the door with practiced efficiency. No warmth in his greeting. The Morettis went through staff like other people went through paper towels. I remembered Thompson's last day, how he'd slipped me my favorite tea with trembling hands.

Clarissa held court in the drawing room, pearls gleaming against her burgundy dress. She'd redecorated since I'd last been here. Darker colors. More gold. The room felt smaller somehow.

"Vivian, darling." Air kisses, her eyes cataloging every detail of my appearance. Each sweep of her gaze felt like a paper cut. "You look... well. Marriage suits you. The second time around, at least."

I caught her glance at my midsection. Too quick to be accidental, too sharp to be casual.

Diane lounged on the new Italian sofa, phone in hand. She didn't bother looking up. "Oh good, you came. I was just reading about your latest photos online."

"Diane." James emerged from his study, already holding a drink. Every time I saw him, the glass seemed to get fuller, his hands less steady. "Not tonight."

"What? I'm being pleasant."

"Dante." James nodded to his brother. "Didn't think you'd come."

"Wouldn't miss it." Dante's hand found the small of my back.

"Still so protective," Clarissa observed. "Some things never change, do they, James? Remember how he used to follow Luca around? Always watching, always... waiting."

I caught the flash in Dante's eyes—something dark and old that made Clarissa's smile falter. But then the butler appeared, and his mask slipped back into place, smooth as glass.

"Dinner is served."

I remembered the etiquette lessons Clarissa had insisted on. Which fork for salad. How to fold a napkin. When to speak. When to stay silent. The dining room hadn't changed—same heavy curtains, same ancestral portraits judging from the walls. I'd spent ten years trying to earn my place at this table. Now I wondered why I'd bothered.

Clarissa directed seating with military precision. "Dante, here by me. Vivian... there." She gestured to the chair I'd always occupied as Luca's wife. "Unless you'd prefer a different seat? You seem to enjoy... changing positions lately."

"The usual seat is fine." I kept my voice light. "It has such a clear view of everyone." I saw her register the implied threat, her fingers tightening on her chair back.

The wine service began. I watched Clarissa's eyes track the movement as I turned my glass over. Her gaze lingered too long, too knowing.

"Not drinking, dear?" Her fingers tapped against her own glass. Three quick taps—the same rhythm she'd used the day she'd pushed me down those stairs.

"Headache."

"Pity. It's the Bordeaux you always loved." She smiled. "Or was that just another thing you pretended to appreciate?"

The soup arrived in heavy silver bowls—Clarissa's special recipe. She watched me over the rim of her wine glass, waiting. The surface of the liquid rippled slightly, though there was no breeze. My spoon felt heavy in my hand.

Dante's movement was so smooth I almost missed it. One moment my bowl was in front of me, the next it sat before him. The look he gave Clarissa could have frozen hell.

My heart stopped. Not because of the switch itself, but because of what it meant—he'd been watching, noticing things I hadn't even thought to fear anymore.

"Try it," he said softly. "You made it especially for us, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're implying." But her hand shook as she set down her wine.

"Don't you? You spent all afternoon in the kitchen, I heard." His voice remained conversational. "Very hands-on today."

The bowl tipped, soup spreading across the white tablecloth. "Oh, how clumsy of me." Relief flickered across her face too quickly to hide.

"Now, now." James cut in. His hands shook slightly as he reached for his wine. "Accidents happen. Remember, Dante, when you and Luca were boys? Always competing over Sophia's soup recipe. Neither of you could quite get it right."

"Times change," Dante said. Under the table, his knee pressed against mine.

"Do they?" Clarissa dabbed at the spill. "Family is still family. Blood is still blood. Isn't that right, Vivian?"

Her words hung in the air. We both knew what blood she meant—the blood I'd lost on her marble stairs.

Talk shifted to business. I watched Dante as he answered questions about acquisitions, mergers, future plans. The slight tension in his jaw when he lied. The way his fingers tapped twice against his glass when deflecting. Tells I'd learned to read like braille.

"The Asian market is particularly promising," he was saying.

"Like Hong Kong?" Diane finally looked up from her phone. "Wasn't that where one of your photos was taken, Vivian? You seem to find that market... stimulating."

I noticed her knuckles whiten around her phone, waiting for me to crumble like I used to. The familiar heat of shame tried to rise, but something else rose instead—something calm and cold.

"Interesting observation," I said. "Your forehead's looking rather stiff. Botox not settling well?"

"How dare you—"

"The lighting in here isn't doing you any favors either. Maybe time to find a new doctor?"

Silence dropped. Diane's face flushed red above her high collar, and for the first time, I saw what Clarissa would look like in twenty years.

"Perhaps we should have coffee in the drawing room," James suggested, his voice thin with forced civility. "Clarissa just got a new set from Milan—"

"No need." Dante stood. "We have an early meeting."

"Running away?" Clarissa's smile was sharp. "That's not like you, little brother."

"Neither is patience." He helped me up. "But we all have to adapt, don't we?"

Her face tightened at the edge of her new facelift.

In the car, he was quiet until we hit the highway. "They won't touch you again."

His phone rang. He put it on speaker.

"Sir, Luca just made a bid for Chen Technologies."

"Just as she said he would," Dante replied, glancing at me. Pride replaced the anger in his eyes.

Later, searching for my phone in my purse, my fingers found paper instead. The edges were soft, worn. I knew what it was before I pulled it out—the ultrasound from my first pregnancy. The one Clarissa had made sure ended at the bottom of her marble staircase.

A tear splashed onto the image. In the doorway, Dante stood silently watching, his shadow stretching across the floor between us. I didn't wipe the tear away. Some things deserved to be witnessed.