Fran nods, her expression smoothing into something practiced. “Of course. Would you like me to be there?”
I take a sip before answering, mostly to buy time. The bitter heat hits the back of my throat, grounding me.
Having my fiancée—who’s nearly the same age as my daughter—there when I tell said daughter I’m getting married to produce a male heir?
That will go over about as well as a gun at Sunday mass.
I set the cup down and give her a measured smile. “That conversation will go better if I’m the only one she wants to kill.”
Fran laughs softly, gliding closer. Her perfume curls into the narrow space between us, sweet and cloying.
“You always think she’s going to hate me,” she purrs. “You might be surprised. We might become best friends.”
Best friends. The word grates. Because the moment she says it, my mind flickers—not to her, not even to Sienna—but to Sienna’sactualbest friend. The curvy girl who’s gotten under my skin in a way I can’t shake. Miss Miller should’ve been forgettable. Just another face that I can glance over once and never think about again.
But I do think about her.
Too much.
I think about the leggings I picked out, how they hugged her hips, how impossible it was not to stare. I think about the soft knit of her sweater and how badly I wanted to slip my hands beneath it, curl my fingers into the warmth of her skin, feel how she’d melt against me.
And worst of all?—
I think about how I woke up this morning with my cock hard, chest tight, heart pounding, with the image of her blue eyes looking up at me. Trusting. Hopeful. Close enough to kiss. Only with her it wouldn’t be tenderness.
It would be hunger.
Need.
Obsession simmering under my skin, breaking through every carefully built wall I’ve spent years hiding behind.
And Fran is standing here, smiling, untouched by the mess brewing inside me and has no idea how close I am to losing control.
“I doubt it,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across her jaw. “Sienna’s her mother’s daughter. She’ll see this for what it is before I can explain why it has to happen.”
Her smile falters just slightly. “You make it sound so transactional.”
“Because it is,” I reply, meeting her gaze head-on. “Marriage has always been about legacy, Fran. You knew that when you agreed.”
For a moment, the silence between us stretches. Then she softens again, tilting her head. “And yet, you still kissed me like it wasn’t.”
“Don’t mistake necessity for lack of pleasure.”
Her answering smile is equal parts satisfaction and warning. “I’ll see you tonight, Lorenzo. Try not to make her hate me before I even walk in the door.”
She turns to leave, her heels clicking across the marble like a countdown.
Sienna’s going to be furious. But it doesn’t matter. In this world, peace is temporary. Legacy is not. And I always finish what I start.
But apparently, the universe has a sense of humor.
Because before Fran can reach the door, it swings open and my daughter barrels in, laughing at something over her shoulder. Elizabeth follows a step behind, stopping short when she realizes I’m not alone.
The laughter dies instantly.
Sienna freezes mid-step, her smile fading as her eyes flick between me and Fran.
“Dad,” she says carefully. “We didn’t know you had company.”
