“I needed to protect her,” I explain. “From Lachlan. From Falco. But I see it now—she doesn’t need protection. She needs partnership.”
“And you want to give her that?”
“I want to ask her,” I say, turning toward my mother. “I want her to choose me. No force. No threats. No war. Just love. I want to marry her properly this time.”
Violette stares at me for a long second. Then, she smiles. Not her usual wicked grin—something gentler. Something proud.
“Well, shit,” she says, standing with a stretch. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day my son got soft over a woman.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I plan to milk it for the rest of my life,” she tosses over her shoulder as she walks toward the patio. “Stay there.”
She disappears through her balcony doors for a few minutes, and when she returns, there’s a small velvet box in her hand. Deep green. Worn at the corners. She holds it out without ceremony, just a glint in her eye.
“This was Nonna’s,” she says. “She wore it through two world wars and one hell of a marriage. Said it brought her luck.”
I take the box and open it. The ring inside is delicate but striking. Platinum filigree with an old-cut diamond, the kind you can’t fake with modern replicas. It’s timeless. Like Zara.
Violette places a hand on my shoulder. “You ask her properly this time. No theatrics. No muscle. Just you. Just her.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Just one thing, Enzo.”
I glance up.
“If she says yes, I expect a grandchild by next Christmas.”
I choke on a laugh, shaking my head as I stand. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re in love,” she calls after me. “Get used to that soft shit, baby boy. You’ll be knee-deep in Pinterest wedding boards by the weekend.”
“Thank you, Ma.” I stand and wrap an arm around her shoulders.
She pats my chest. “Don’t thank me, thank God that you somehow convinced that woman to stay even with your empireand your crazy ways.” She moves back to her chair, picking her martini. “Now go, leave me in peace with my roses.”
I pocket the ring and head back toward the house. My heart feels lighter than it has in years.
She’ll have a choice this time. And God help me, I hope she chooses me.
The drawing roomlooks like a bomb full of tulle, gold foil, and empty espresso cups went off.
Violette has three open notebooks spread across the table and a tablet in hand, flipping between photos of florals and mock invitations. She’s sipping her second martini—dirty, of course—while Lars is pacing near the fireplace, arms crossed, a pencil tucked behind his ear like he’s halfway to quitting whatever job he’s just assigned himself.
“I’m telling you,” Violette says, swirling her drink, “naked statues with glitter guns. The press will eat it up.”
Lars groans. “We’re not weaponizing glitter, Violette.”
“Why not?” She turns to me like I’ll be her salvation. “Zara, back me up. A little sparkle never killed anyone.”
“Actually,” Lars mutters, “I’m pretty sure it has.”
I grin as I flip through the event sketchbook we’ve been building. “Okay, no guns, but what about dancers suspended from silks? Something dramatic but classy.”
Violette claps once. “Yes. God, yes. You are a gift. Lars, hire someone bendy.”
Lars scribbles something on his notepad with the enthusiasm of a man who knows he’s already lost.
