My fork froze halfway to my mouth. “Someone?”
“Well, two someones. My grandparents.” Something softened in his expression. “They’re insistent about meeting my new wife.”
I set my fork down slowly. “Your grandparents know we're married?”
“They read the New York Post. Everyone knows we're married.” A rueful smile played at his lips. “They called this morning to inform me that if I didn't bring you to dinner tonight, they’d disown me.”
“Sounds like my kind of people,” I said before I could stop myself.
His smile widened into something genuine, transforming his face in a way that made my pulse skip. “They are. Especially my Nonna. You'll like her.” He paused. “And she'll like you.”
I wanted to refuse on principle—to assert some control over this situation that still felt like it was careening wildly out of my grasp. But curiosity won out over pride. “What time?”
“I'll pick you up at seven.” He hesitated, then added, “Wear something nice. Not for me,” he clarified quickly. “For her. She's old-school Italian. Appearances matter.”
I nodded, already mentally cataloging the limited wardrobe I'd brought with me. “Seven it is.”
He lingered a moment longer, his eyes studying my face as if memorizing it. Then he was gone.
I stared at my half-eaten breakfast, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Rafe apologizing. Rafe showing interest in my dance classes. Rafe inviting me to meet his grandparents.
It didn't track with the cold, manipulative man who'd blackmailed me into marriage. Didn't align with the controlling bastard who'd accused me of cheating after one day of our sham union.
But it did, strangely, fit with the man I'd glimpsed in the darkness, pouring his soul into piano keys.
I wasn't sure which version was real or if any of them were. But as I finished my coffee and watched the sunlight play across the fine china and crystal, I realized I was more curious to find out than I wanted to admit.
Chapter 11
Cece
Standing in front of Rafe's walk-in closet, I stared at my pathetic collection of clothes like they'd personally betrayed me. The few dresses I'd hastily packed when Rafe had given me nine minutes to gather my life were laughably inadequate for dinner with Italian grandparents who, according to him, cared about appearances. Fingers trembling, I pushed the hangers across the rack, each sad option was worse than the last. This was hopeless. I needed backup, and there was only one person I could call who wouldn't judge me—at least not to my face.
Grabbing my phone, I pulled up Izzy number and hit dial. Three rings, four, then five. Just as I was about to hang up, her voice filled my ear.
“This better be important. I'm in the middle of hanging the Morrison exhibit, and you know how the old bastard gets if his landscapes aren't at the perfect viewing height.”
“I need help,” I blurted, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Emergency fashion crisis.”
“Honey, your whole wardrobe is a crisis.” Her laugh softened the barb. “What's the occasion? Hot date with the husband you forgot to tell me you were marrying?”
I winced as guilt stabbed between my ribs. “I'm sorry about that. It's complicated.”
“Hmm, so I bet it is.” The sound of something dropping to the floor filtered through the line. “But seriously, what's the fashion emergency?”
“Dinner with Rafe's grandparents tonight.” I paced the span of the bedroom. “Apparently they're old-school Italian, and I have nothing appropriate to wear, and I can't show up looking like a trashy American who corrupted their golden grandson, and—”
“Breathe, Cece.” Izzy cut through my spiral with practiced ease. “Meet me at Bergdorf's in an hour. I'll rescue you from this tragic situation.”
The relief that washed over me was so intense it made my knees weak. “You're a lifesaver. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do. Starting with every juicy detail about how you ended up married to Rafael de Luca after claiming for months that he was, and I quote, 'an arrogant dinosaur with daddy issues.'”
“I'll tell you everything,” I groaned. “Just... help me not look like complete trash in front of his family.”
“Challenge accepted. One hour. Don't be late.” She hung up before I could thank her again.
Closing my eyes, I exhaled slowly. If anyone could help me pull this off, it was Izzy. We'd clicked instantly the first time we met at one of those Sunday dinners at Kate and Tristan's—she was Kate's little sister with the sharp tongue and sharper eye for bullshit. While Everlee and Kate had been busy cooing over table settings or pregnancy symptoms, Izzy and I had snuck out to the terrace with stolen wine and spent hours talking about everything from art to men to the crushing weightof expectation. She'd become the friend I hadn't realized I desperately needed in this city—someone who didn't expect me to be anything other than exactly who I was.
