Chapter 2

The next morning, a junior planner arrived with revised pages for the wedding binder. Canceling my venue hadn't stopped my father from holding planning meetings in his own house. His office had hired her, and nobody there had thought to ask me whether they should stop.

Dad opened the binder before I sat down. The seating chart separated the Moretti captains from the DeLuca men; even the dance floor had been negotiated like disputed territory.

“Valentina will walk with us. The other families need to see that she's my daughter, not a guest we're tolerating.”

On the processional page, my name now shared a line with hers. A new reception backdrop read THE MORETTI DAUGHTERS beneath our family crest. My wedding to Luca had become the setting for her public welcome, nine years late.

Dad caught my expression before I'd managed to arrange it.

“Don't start, Emilia. You have a father to give you away. Hers died keeping this family alive.”

Valentina stared at her lap. “We don't have to do it. I can sit with the cousins.”

“Nobody's putting you at the back.”

Luca sat beside me, warm hand settling over my knee. He'd spent an entire Sunday choosing the lettering for our invitations. He carried a photograph of me inside his wallet, folded so it wouldn't crease my face. I couldn't pretend I was marrying a man who felt nothing.

“It's a few minutes,” he said quietly. “After that, it's us. I'll spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

“You haven't heard what I think.”

“I know you don't want anyone hurt.” His thumb moved over my knee. “Especially her.”

The planner looked down at her notes. Dad drew breath for another lecture, and I reached for the pen.

“You're getting ahead of yourselves. I haven't objected.”

I initialed the page approving the arrangement. It couldn't reinstate the venue, the catering, or the wedding I'd canceled. They could give Valentina every minute of a ceremony that wasn't happening.

Dad relaxed. Luca kissed my temple, mistaking exhaustion for agreement.

Upstairs, my bedroom was full of Valentina's shopping. Bags occupied the chair; dresses crowded my clothes to one end of the wardrobe.

She emerged from the bathroom and followed my gaze.

“I'm running out of space. You won't need this room after the wedding.”

My first room faced the garden. Dad gave it to her because she'd had nightmares in the smaller one. Matteo carried my boxes downstairs, and Luca helped paint the guest room, leaving a white streak across his nose.

“We'll make this one better,” he'd said.

When Valentina wanted the quiet guest room for music lessons, I moved again. Neither man came to paint the attic.

I pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed. My portfolio went in first: student collections, private commissions, and photographs of the eveningwear I'd designed for the family foundation's auction.

“Going somewhere?” Valentina asked.

“For work.”

“This close to the wedding?” She watched me fold a sweater. “Luca worries when he doesn't know where you are.”

“I'll handle Luca.”

She unfastened the pendant and held it out. “Matteo had the bail repaired. It was snagging my hair. I thought you'd want to see.”

My mother's tiny inscription ran around the gold rim: For Emilia, always home. The jeweler had polished away part of my name while replacing the fitting.

I traced the rough edge with my thumb. Valentina watched closely.

“He says it can be engraved again.”

Of course it could. They could find a craftsman, pay a bill, reproduce the words. My mother's hand would still be gone.

I set it on the dresser rather than around my neck.

“Have him give me the repair paperwork.”

Then I returned to packing. After a minute, Valentina left without asking which dresses she could keep in my wardrobe.