Chương 2
A new argument started outside. Elena heard Luciana say she would not be insulted in her own home. Isabel said something in Spanish that she had not used since Elena was fourteen and caught sneaking out through the laundry window.
Elena almost laughed.
The sound got halfway into her throat and became a breath.
“Ask your mother to leave,” she told Adrian.
“This is her villa.”
“Then you leave.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
“You already did.”
The corridor went quiet again.
Elena looked at Adrian’s phone, still in her hand. In the confusion she had taken it with her. The screen had dimmed, but his passcode had not changed in four years. She entered the six digits of the date they met.
The message thread with Luciana was open.
The photograph of Elena’s sketch sat between a photograph of a broken fountain pump and a recipe for lemon cake. Beneath it, Luciana had written, Beautiful. Send me the back.
Adrian had replied with a second photograph.
Elena stopped breathing.
The second image showed the back of her gown on the dress form in the workroom. The low line. The covered buttons. The exact fall of the silk. She had never sent that photograph to Adrian.
He had taken it himself.
Her thumb moved upward.
There were dozens of messages.
Luciana: The first seamstress says six weeks.
Adrian: That’s too close.
Luciana: Then tell me who Elena uses.
Adrian: I can’t do that.
Luciana: You already sent the design.
Adrian: I sent it so you could coordinate the venue.
Luciana: And I am coordinating.
Farther down:
Adrian: Mom, the neckline is basically identical.
Luciana: Mine has sleeves.
Adrian: Those aren’t sleeves.
Luciana: They are wider straps.
Adrian: She’s going to know.
Luciana: She will be busy.
Elena read the line twice.
She will be busy.
Not surprised. Not pleased. Busy.
Luciana had expected Elena to notice and believed the machinery of a wedding would keep her silent.
A knock sounded again, softer this time.
“Elena,” Adrian said. “I can explain.”
She unlocked the door.
He entered alone and shut it behind him. His boutonniere had bent against someone’s shoulder. A dark curl had fallen over his forehead. He looked as he did after a sleepless night: handsome in a way that now seemed less like comfort than an old persuasion.
Elena handed him the phone.
“I read the messages.”
His face changed before he looked at the screen.
That small change hurt more than the dress. It told her he already knew which messages would condemn him.
“I didn’t want this,” he said.
“You photographed the back.”
“She kept asking.”
“So you did not want it, but you did it repeatedly.”
“I thought if I gave her enough information, she’d calm down.”
“Did she?”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No.”
“Has that strategy ever worked?”
“This isn’t the time to analyze my entire relationship with my mother.”
Elena looked toward the door. “You brought your entire relationship with your mother to the altar.”
He flinched.
For one unfair second, she was glad.
Then she hated that she was glad, because ugliness felt like another thing the Morettis had managed to put on her.
Adrian pulled out the desk chair opposite hers but did not sit. “She was upset.”
“About what?”
“About the wedding.”
“Her only child getting married?”
“You know it’s more complicated.”
“No. I know you say it is complicated whenever the simple version makes you look bad.”
His jaw tightened. “My father died. The villa nearly went under. She has spent three years trying to keep this place alive. Then we planned a wedding here, and every decision made her feel like a guest.”
“She was the host.”
“She didn’t feel like one.”
“So you gave her my dress?”
“I gave her photographs. I did not give her your dress.”
Elena stared at him.
He looked away first.
The distinction was so precise that it must have been rehearsed.
She stood. The gown’s skirt brushed the desk, knocking one white rose from the bouquet. It landed beside Adrian’s shoe.
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
She waited.
He leaned down, picked up the rose, and placed it on the desk.
“What else, Adrian?”
“Nothing that matters today.”
“Everything that does not matter today will matter tomorrow.”
He turned toward the shuttered windows. Through the slats came fractured glimpses of the garden: pale chairs, blue sky, the edge of the floral arch, guests moving in uncertain groups.
“We had a conversation about your work,” he said.
“With whom?”
“My mother.”
“You have many conversations with your mother.”
“And Pietro Santi.”
The name belonged to a hospitality consultant Luciana had hired during the winter. Pietro had transformed old estates into luxury event brands, mostly by convincing wealthy clients that inconvenience was authenticity.
Elena folded her arms. “Why were you talking to Pietro about my work?”
Adrian’s pause was brief.
It was still a pause.
“He thought there could be a partnership.”
“With Bell & Marín?”
“With you.”
“I don’t have a partnership with him.”
“Not yet.”
A coldness passed through Elena that had nothing to do with the room.
“What did you promise?”
“I didn’t promise anything.”
“What did you allow him to believe?”
Adrian sat down at last. The tuxedo pulled tight across his shoulders. “He saw the dress design. He thought it fit the identity he’s developing for the villa. Mediterranean, modern, family-run. He said if you created a small bridal line under the Moretti name, it could help both businesses.”
“My business is not called Moretti.”
“It would have been after today.”
“No. I would have been Elena Marín Moretti. Bell & Marín would still be Bell & Marín.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
He looked tired now, which angered her. Tiredness implied that something difficult had happened to him.
“It was an idea,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Did you send Pietro the sketch?”
“No.”
“Did your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
May you like
Elena held out her hand.
“For what?”
