Anastasia’s Point of View

The last thing I expected on a quiet Thursday morning was to receive a phone call from Eleanor Zane inviting me to lunch.

I stood behind the counter of my bookstore, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process her warm, insistent voice on the other end. Claire shot me a curious look from across the room where she was reorganizing the romance section, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"Anastasia, dear, I insist," Eleanor continued. "I haven't had a proper conversation with you since the wedding, and I'd love to get to know my grandson's wife better. Besides, Christopher tells me you've been working yourself to exhaustion."

My grip tightened on the phone. Christopher had been talking about me?

"That's very kind of you, Grandma," I said carefully, using the title she'd insisted I call her. "But I usually don't close the shop during lunch hours."

"Then bring your lovely business partner along," Eleanor suggested smoothly. "I'm sure she can manage for one afternoon. Consider it a family obligation."

There was no refusing Eleanor Zane when she used that tone. I had learned that much in the short time I'd known her.

"Alright," I conceded. "What time?"

"I'll send a car for you at noon. Wear something nice, dear. We're going to Luminère."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stared at my phone, my stomach twisting into knots. Luminère was one of the most exclusive French restaurants in Manhattan, the kind of place where reservations were made months in advance and a single appetizer cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

"What was that about?" Claire appeared at my elbow, curiosity written all over her face.

"Christopher's grandmother wants to have lunch," I said slowly. "At Luminère."

Claire's eyes widened. "The Luminère? Anastasia, that place is impossible to get into. Even my cousin who works in fine dining can't get a reservation there." She paused, studying my face. "Are you sure your husband is just an ordinary businessman?"

I brushed off her concern with a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. "His grandmother probably has connections. Old money families always do."

But even as I said it, doubt crept into my mind like frost spreading across a window.

The car that arrived at noon was not what I expected. A sleek black Mercedes pulled up in front of my bookstore, and a driver in a crisp uniform stepped out, opening the back door with practiced precision.

"Mrs. Zane," he greeted me with a respectful nod.

I froze on the sidewalk. Mrs. Zane. The title still felt foreign on my ears, like wearing someone else's clothes.

Claire grabbed my arm, her nails digging in slightly. "Anastasia," she whispered urgently. "That's a private driver. With a Mercedes S-Class."

"It's just his grandmother being generous," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

The drive to Luminère took twenty minutes through midday traffic. I spent the entire time staring out the window, watching the neighborhoods shift from modest to affluent, the buildings growing taller and more imposing with each passing block.

When we arrived, a valet immediately appeared to open my door. The restaurant's exterior was understated elegance, all cream stone and subtle gold accents, with a doorman who nodded at me as if he'd been expecting my arrival.

Inside, the maitre d' greeted me by name.

"Mrs. Zane, what a pleasure. Mrs. Eleanor Zane is already waiting for you in our private dining room."

Private dining room. Of course.

I followed him through the main restaurant, past tables of well-dressed diners who spoke in hushed, cultured tones. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over white tablecloths and gleaming silverware. Everything about this place screamed wealth and privilege.

Everything I wasn't.

Eleanor sat at a table near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city, looking every inch the refined matriarch in a tailored lavender suit, her silver hair perfectly styled. When she saw me, her face lit up with genuine warmth.

"Anastasia, darling!" She rose and embraced me, her perfume subtle and expensive. "You look lovely. Come, sit."

I took the seat across from her, smoothing down the simple navy dress I'd chosen that morning. Next to Eleanor's effortless sophistication, I felt hopelessly out of place.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Eleanor said, pouring me a glass of sparkling water from a crystal pitcher. "I've been wanting to do this since the wedding, but Christopher kept insisting you were too busy."

"The bookstore does keep me occupied," I admitted.

Eleanor's eyes sparkled with something I couldn't quite read. "Christopher mentioned you've been cooking for him in the evenings. He says you're quite talented in the kitchen."

Heat crept up my neck. The idea of Christopher talking about me to his grandmother felt strangely intimate, like a glimpse behind the walls he kept so carefully constructed.

"I just make simple meals," I said. "Nothing fancy."

"He also mentioned you've been transforming that sterile apartment of his into something resembling a home," Eleanor continued, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Plants on the balcony, books on the shelves, actual food in the refrigerator. You've accomplished in two weeks what I couldn't manage in ten years."

I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just trying to make the space livable."

"You're making it a home, dear. There's a difference." Eleanor's gaze turned assessing, but not unkind. "Tell me, how are things between you and Christopher? And I want the truth, not politeness."

The question caught me off guard. I set down my water glass, choosing my words carefully.

"It's an adjustment," I admitted. "We're still figuring out how to live together."

"He's been coming home every night, hasn't he?"

I nodded, surprised she knew.

Eleanor's smile widened. "Christopher hasn't slept at that apartment more than twice a month in the past five years. He usually stays at the family estate or works through the night at the office. The fact that he's coming home to you every evening tells me more than you realize."

My heart did something complicated in my chest, a flutter I immediately tried to suppress. This was an arrangement, nothing more. The fact that Christopher came home didn't mean anything beyond basic courtesy.

Did it?

"Grandma," I started carefully, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course, dear."

"What exactly does Christopher do? He's mentioned business trips and meetings, but he's never really explained his work."

Something flickered across Eleanor's face, gone too quickly to identify. When she spoke, her voice was measured.

"Christopher is in corporate management. Very high-level, very demanding. He's worked his entire life to build his career." She reached across the table and patted my hand. "But that's not what you should be focusing on, Anastasia. The question you should be asking is whether he treats you well."

"He does," I said, and realized it was true. Christopher might be cold and distant, but he'd never been unkind. He'd given me space, respected my independence, even apologized when he'd overstepped.

"Good." Eleanor settled back in her chair as their waiter arrived with the first course. "Then everything else will fall into place in time."

But as I lifted my fork to take my first bite of the most exquisite food I'd ever tasted, I couldn't shake the feeling that Eleanor was hiding something.

Something big.

And that everyone except me was in on the secret.