That placated her slightly. But only slightly. At least she had some pull, she supposed.
His mother’s house was beautiful. Palatial and situated on top of a mountain that overlooked the city.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“It is,” he replied. “You would think that she might find some peace here.”
“She doesn’t?”
“Peace is not really in my mother’s wheelhouse.”
Her stomach twisted with nerves, or maybe it was morning sickness. It was really hard to tell. She had been feeling better in general, but sometimes nausea hit her, and not necessarily always early in the day.
They were ushered in by one of his mother’s employees, and through the entryway, into the dining room. It was set up beautifully for high tea, with tiered trays of desserts and delicate china all around.
“This is beautiful.”
Heather said that just before his mother swept into the room, and the look of delight on her face at hearing it instantly alleviated some of Heather’s worries.
“I’m glad that you think so,” she said.
Carla Accardi was one of the most beautiful women in the world. This was a truth universally accepted by many fashion magazines, and age had not dimmed her beauty. Her dark hair was just as it had been the last time Heather had seen her. Long and falling in waves around her shoulders, not a single strand of silver to be seen, though that was probably the work of color artists.
She still had the slim frame required of a runway model back in the ’90s, and as Heather remembered, looked elegant just standing there. She was wearing a floral robe in a highly saturated silk. It could have been a dress, it could’ve been only a robe, but she made it look like high-fashion either way.
“Lisa’s daughter,” she said, her dark eyes fixed like lasers on Heather.
“Yes.”
“Your mother is dead now.”
“Yes,” Heather said.
There was no real compassion in the other woman’s voice. But no venom either. It was an observation. And even though it felt unkind, Heather wasn’t going to react to it. She had too much practice being bullied.
“Let’s all have a seat,” Carla said, smiling brightly.
Heather returns the smile. “Yes. Let’s.”
“You’re pregnant,” Carla said, in that same matter-of-fact tone. No indication as to whether or not she was pleased by the news.
“Yes. And Romeo and I are getting married. I know he told you already.”
“I do hope that you have a prenuptial agreement.”
“Yes,” Romeo said. “We do. Of course. To protect the both of us.”
“You obviously need more protection than she does,” Carla said.
“Financially,” Heather said, shrugging. “That is inarguably true.”
Both Romeo and Carla looked at her.
“Well,” she said. “It is. I’m not offended by that.”
“Is he only marrying you because you’re pregnant?” she asked.
The question was cutting. But again, nothing that had never been leveled at Heather before. By Romeo himself, in fact.
