My father sent me abroad for one reason only: to become the perfect trophy wife. Boarding schools in Switzerland weren't about education—they were about polish. Learning which fork to use at important dinners, how to speak four languages fluently enough to charm business associates, how to dress for every occasion. The MBA was his idea, too. Not because he wanted me working, but because wealthy men prefer wives who can discuss markets and portfolios at dinner parties without embarrassing them.
The fashion degree? That was my rebellion. He allowed it only because he assumed I'd use it the way my mother uses her modeling background—as an attractive footnote on my resume, nothing more. He never expected me to actually want to use either degree. To him, education is just another accessory, like my mother's diamond necklace. Something to make his daughter more valuable on the marriage market.
But I want more than to be decorative.
I want a real job where I design clothes, not just sketch them for fun? A studio apartment where I pay my own rent? My father would see it as rebellion. Worse, as humiliation. Whatwould his associates say if Giovanni Marino's daughter was working like some common girl who needed the money?
I can already see the sneer on my mother’s face at the mention of leaving behind all the luxuries my father's house provides to fend for myself. She'll remind me that girls from good families don't leave home until they marry. That my job is to be beautiful, accomplished enough to impress, and available for whatever match my father arranges.
No, my parents are not going to like it when I tell them my plans.
“I’ll tell them at dinner,” I say again, more to myself this time.
"Why don't you tell Mom first?” Bella, the youngest at seventeen, chirps and my head whips up at her words. “She’s on her way here.”
My heart stutters, and I straighten in my chair when Mom’s perfume hits me. That expensive floral scent she's worn since I was a little girl. A rich, complex blend of dark florals, hints of orchid, layered over warm, sensual amber. It's a scent that clings to the air, bold with a calculated allure like the woman that wears it.
Then she steps in, holding a crystal vase of flowers.
She’s a vision of elegance and ice. The poise she’s had from her modeling days, before she gave it all up to marry my father. Her brown hair is pulled back so tight it looks painted on, not a strand out of place. Her lipstick is a perfect crimson slash across her face, those green eyes cold as they sweep the room. She’s always kept her nails long and sharp, painted blood red to match her lips.
Watching her, I’m reminded of why I wanted to study fashion design. I wanted to create the beauty she embodied. Except I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps and become a model. No, I wanted to be the one dressing them.
Hell, I designed the dress she’s wearing tonight, and it looks stunning on her. A sleek, emerald green silk sheath that falls just below her knees. The fabric drapes perfectly over her figure and pairs beautifully with the black stilettos. My eyes rest on the delicate diamond necklace at her collarbone. Her favorite necklace, which she only ever wears for important occasions. But then again, every day is an important occasion for my mother.
“What are you girls doing in here?” she asks, her voice clipped as she walks in with her flowers. “You should be helping set the table. We’re having company for dinner tonight.”
“Right, we should get to that.” I start to get up, but a hand yanks me back down to my seat. I turn to find Elena’s eyes narrowed on mine.
“Tell her,” Elena mouths.
I shake my head. “It’s not the right time—”
“Do it now, Sofia,” she pushes and we both watch as Mom sets the vase on the side table, adjusting the blooms with those long red nails. “Tell her now!”
The other girls nod and I watch with horror as they all get to their feet and announce that they’re going to help set the table, leaving me to face my mother alone. “Good luck,” Gia offers with a smile as she follows them out.
“Are you going to tell me what you and the girls were whispering about?” Mom asks when we're alone, her back turned to me as she fusses over the arrangement.
Right.
Slow breaths, Sofia.
“So…” I clear my throat and climb to my feet, fighting the urge to wring my fingers. I’m twenty-four, for Christ’s sake. It shouldn’t be terrifying to share my plans with my parents, but I am about to go against their expectations. I owe them this conversation, I tell myself. “I’ve been thinking, Mama. About what I'm going to do now that I've completed my master's.”
She turns around, pinning me in place with those green eyes so like mine yet utterly different. “And what would that be,cara?”
“I think it’s time I started working… in the fashion industry.”
“Not this again,” she says with a frown, turning back to her flowers.
"I'm serious, Mama. I've already found been offered a position at a fashion house in Midtown, and I’m looking for a place to move—”
“Don’t be silly,mia cara,” she says dismissively, those long red nails caressing the rose petals with deliberate care. “Your father and I sent you to the best schools money can buy and introduced you to very important people. Do you think we're going to let you waste all that effort in some fashion warehouse?”
“It’s my dream to design clothes.”
She sighs, long and heavy, as one does when dealing with a petulant child. "Every woman’s dream is to start her own family,cara. You’re at the age where you need to focus on becoming a wife and bearing children for your husband. You won’t have time for such trivial hobbies.”
