Fran’s poise doesn’t crack. She merely smooths an invisible wrinkle from her coat. “You must be Sienna,” she says pleasantly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Yeah,” Sienna says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “And you are?”
“Francesca Marino,” I answer before Fran can. “My fiancée.”
The silence that follows could split the earth.
Sienna’s mouth falls open. “I’m sorry—yourwhat?”
Fran offers a delicate smile, extending her hand. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”
Sienna doesn’t take it.
Behind her, Elizabeth looks like she’s trying to disappear, her wide blue eyes darting between the three of us. I catch her gaze for a brief moment, and something twists low in my chest.
“Sienna,” I begin, my voice calm but firm, “this isn’t the place for a scene.”
She lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Ascene? Dad, you’re getting married, and this is how you tell me? In passing? While she’s standingright there?”
Fran shifts subtly, and I can feel the heat of her indignation. I round the desk, going to Fran’s side. As much as my daughter doesn’t like this, she knows better than to question me.
But Sienna’s chest bows up the same way it did when she was a child and about to throw a fit.
“Maybe we should give them a moment,” Elizabeth says softly, her voice the only gentle thing in the damn room.
She, too, must know that my daughter is about to lose it. I’m so fucking grateful that she’s here and shoot her a thankful look.
But then Fran turns toward her, slow and feline, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “I’m sorry. Andyouare?”
The tone—sweetened venom, dipped in condescension—hits me like a slap and pisses me off immediately. Because she’s speaking to Elizabeth like she’s beneath her. Like she doesn’t belong here. Like she’s not good enough to breathe the same air we’re breathing. And something hot and ugly coils low in my gut.
I don’t want Fran talking to her.
And I sure as hell don’t wantanyonetalking to her that way.
Elizabeth stiffens, eyes lowering for half a second before she lifts them again—brave, steady, and beautifully defiant. But Fran’s tone still lingers in the space between them, a reminder of the lines she thinks she can draw. Lines she thinks I’ll enforce.
The hell I will.
Because Elizabeth may not know it yet, and Fran sure as hell doesn’t, but the moment that girl stepped into my orbit, she stopped being someone people could talk down to.
And the fact that Fran even tried makes my jaw clench hard enough to ache.
Sienna jumps in. “Don’t talk to my friend like that.”
I step between them and say, “Fran I’ll see you tonight at eight.”
She shoots a triumph smile to Sienna and says, “Of course, darling. See you then. All of you.”
When the door closes behind her, Sienna rounds on me.
“Tell me this is some kind of sick joke,” she demands, voice trembling with anger. “Because if it’s not, you’ve officially lost your damn mind, Dad. First of all, that woman is my age! Second, she’s a bitch! I mean, is this some kind of midlife crisis?”
“Watch your tone with me.” I say, leaning against the edge of the desk. “It’s not a joke. Fran and I are getting married.”
“Why?”
The question lands heavier than it should.
