“Mediterranean, originally. We’ve been scattered for generations.” A perfectly vague answer that reveals nothing while sounding entirely reasonable. “These days I’m primarily involved in... acquisitions.”
“How interesting.” Translation: I’ll be investigating you thoroughly later. “And how did you meet my daughter?”
“Dance lessons, actually. Isadora was kind enough to take me on as a student despite my complete lack of natural ability.”
“You’re being modest.” The words escape before I can stop them. “He’s an excellent dancer.”
My mother’s eyebrow arches. “Is he? How fortunate. Perhaps you can demonstrate later.”
Trap. Definite trap.
“We’d be happy to,” Mal says smoothly. “Though of course, tonight is about you. I understand congratulations are in order. Fifty-eight years of gracing the world with your presence.”
The flattery lands exactly as intended. My mother’s expression warms by approximately half a degree.
“Charming,” she says. “I can see why Isadora is keeping you around.” She pats my arm in a gesture that’s almost affectionate. “Mingle, darling. There are people asking about you. The Watsons want to know when you’re competing again, and Mrs. Castellano’s granddaughter is apparently desperate for lessons.”
“I’ll make the rounds.”
“See that you do. First impressions matter, even at family gatherings.” She sweeps away toward another cluster of guests, midnight silk swirling.
I exhale slowly.
“That was...” Mal trails off.
“Round one. She’s warming up.”
“Warming up?”
“The birthday criticism doesn’t start until after the first round of champagne.” I grab a glass from a passing server. “Come on. Let’s get the social obligations over with.”
The next hour is a gauntlet of polite conversation and barely veiled interrogation.
How is the studio doing, dear? Are you still teaching children’s classes? Have you thought about expanding? Your mothermentioned the showcase—is it wise to compete when your business needs attention?
Each question carries an edge, a subtle implication that my choices are questionable, my priorities misaligned. I smile until my face aches and deliver the expected responses while Mal stands beside me, a steady presence that keeps me grounded.
He’s good at this, I realize. Better than good. He navigates the social minefield with the ease of someone who’s spent centuries dealing with far more dangerous conversations. His hand finds mine at exactly the right moments. His comments defuse tension without causing offense. He redirects conversations that are veering toward uncomfortable territory.
“Your daughter has transformed that studio,” he tells Mrs. Castellano with complete sincerity. “The children adore her. She has a gift for making even the most nervous students feel capable.”
“The Bellamy Cove Showcase will be remarkable this year,” he assures Mr. Watson. “Isadora’s choreography is unlike anything I’ve experienced. People will be talking about it for years.”
He’s defending me, I realize. Not overtly—nothing that would cause a scene—but persistently building a counter-narrative to whatever doubts these people have been harboring.
“Thank you,” I murmur during a rare quiet moment. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His eyes meet mine. “Everything I’ve said is true, by the way. I’m not performing for them.”
“Mal—”
“Isadora.” My mother’s voice cuts across the crowd. “A moment?”
I stiffen, and Mal’s hand tightens on mine.
“It’s fine,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself. “I’ll be right back.”
My mother leads me through the French doors to the terrace, away from the crowd. The night air is cool against my heated skin, carrying the scent of the manicured gardens below.
