“Chrys,” Tia said softly and stood, hurrying towards me, eyes fixed on my hand.
“Your hand.” She carefully took my injured hand in hers. The warmth of her touch sent relief coursing through me. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” I replied, unable to look away from her face.
“Come meet my mother,” she said, as she tugged me toward the table.
Tia’s mother sat straight-back in her chair, her observant eyes tracking our every movement. She was beautiful, with the same high cheekbones as Tia, though her expression more guarded.
Tia told me how her mother had worked night shifts as a nursing assistant throughout her childhood before building a digital marketing agency that now generated millions annually. Looking at Deanna now, I could see why she’d succeeded.
She had that same commanding presence my father carried. The unmistakable aura of someone who knew their worth and wouldn’t be intimidated, regardless of their surroundings.
“Mom, this is Chrysanthos Christakis. My fiancé.”
I stepped forward, extending my uninjured hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. White. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to my bandaged hand before she accepted my handshake. Her grip was firm.
“Chrysanthos,” she replied. “I wish I could say the same about you.”
I nodded, acknowledging the subtle rebuke. “I understand. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to change that.”
Ms. White’s expression softened. “My daughter seems to think very highly of you,” she said. “Despite some... concerning circumstances.”
“I know I haven’t made the best impression,” I admitted. “But I love your daughter very much, and I intend to spend my life proving I’m worthy of her.”
Domna made a small sound of approval from across the table.
Ms. White studied me for a moment longer before gesturing to the empty chair beside her. “Join us for breakfast. We have a lot to discuss.”
I took the offered seat, grateful when Tia slid into the chair beside me, her thigh pressed against mine. Beneath the table, her fingers sought mine, intertwining them.
“So, Chrysanthos,” Ms. White began, delicately buttering a piece of toast, “Tia tells me you’re quite the race car driver. Is that how you injured your hand?”
“Actually—” I started.
“My grandson had a disagreement with a wall,” Domna interjected. “The wall won.”
“Do you always take your anger out physically when you’re upset?”
The table fell silent. Tia’s grip tightened on my hand beneath the tablecloth.
“Mom,” Tia whispered, her tone pleading.
“It’s a fair question,” Ms. White said, her gaze unwavering. “I see a young man with a broken hand, and my daughter with tear-stained eyes.”
“Deanna,” Yiayia interjected, “Santo may be impulsive, but never cruel. He would never raise a hand to a woman.”
“The wall was definitely the only casualty,” Irida added.
I raised my uninjured hand, stopping their defense. “No, she’s right to be concerned.” I turned to face Ms. White directly. “This isn’t typical behavior for me, but it’s not an excuse. I was angry and acted foolishly. It’s something I’m working on.”
A flicker of approval crossed Ms. White’s features. “At least you own your mistakes.”
“I do,” I said firmly. “And I’m committed to being better. For Tia.”
Tia’s hand squeezed mine under the table, and I knew we’d be alright.
