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She’s standing in the archway to the morning room, arms folded in a way that makes her diamond tennis bracelet glint in the light. She’s dressed in her signature palette, wearing a cream silk blouse, tailored navy slacks, with her hair scraped back in a chignon so tight it could hold up one side of the house in an earthquake. Her lips are painted the exact shade of rose that matches the centerpieces she insists on ordering fresh every week.

“Good morning, Lucille,” I say, plastering on what I hope is a reasonably convincing smile.

I descend from the stairs, careful not to let my feet tap against the marble. It doesn’t matter, because she watches every step, cataloguing the smudge on my sleeve, the slight crook in my posture, the fact that I’m carrying my own bag like a commoner.

Before I can set the bag down, she signals to Maria, who must have been hiding just out of sight.

“Maria, please take Audrey’s bag to her room and press her travel clothes, please. There’s a spot on the cuff.” Then she turns to me. “Come, let’s have breakfast. You can tell me all about the reunion.”

Of course, she wants details. I should have prepared for this during the drive, but my mind was too occupied with Reign’s promise to “handle everything.” Now I have to improvise an entire weekend of fake socializing while my body still hums with the memory of his hands.

The morning room overlooks the estate’s east garden, where early spring flowers are just beginning to bloom. It’s Lucille’s favorite space for informal meals, decorated in shades of yellow and white that she claims are “optimistically elegant.” The table is already set for two with her preferred Spode china, and I can smell the scent of her signature Earl Grey blend.

“So, tell me everything,” she says once we’re seated and Maria has poured our tea. “How was Sarah Patterson? Still as vapid as ever, I assume?”

I take a careful sip of tea, buying time.

“Actually, she’s doing really well. She just got engaged to that investment banker from Denver. The one whose family owns half of Aspen.”

Lucille’s eyebrows rise with interest. “The Morrison boy? Well, that’s quite a catch. Good for her.”

The lie comes easier than expected, and I find myself warming to the performance.

“Rebecca Mills was there, too. Still single, unfortunately. She’s been dating some artist she met in New York, but apparently it’s not serious.”

“An artist?” Lucille’s tone suggests Rebecca might as well be dating a serial killer. “How bohemian of her. I suppose not everyone can be as fortunate as you, darling.”

Right. Because marrying a mob boss is the height of good fortune.

“Jessica Chen looked incredible,” I continue, stabbing at my Eggs Benedict. “She’s been traveling through Europe with her husband. They just bought a villa in Tuscany.”

“How lovely for them.” Lucille cuts her own eggs with surgical precision. “Though I do hope she’s being mindful of her complexion. All that Mediterranean sun can be so aging.”

For the next twenty minutes, I spin increasingly elaborate tales about my former classmates. Ashley’s pharmaceutical heiress wedding. Morgan’s tech startup success. Lindsay’s unfortunate divorce from her oil executive husband. Each story earns the appropriate response from Lucille with approval for good matches, sympathy for failed ones, and subtle disdain for anyone who’s chosen love over strategic advantage.

“It sounds like you had a wonderful time reconnecting,” she says finally, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Though I must say, none of these girls has managed to secure quite the catch you have in Gio.”

My stomach clenches. Just yesterday morning I was naked in Reign’s arms, and now I’m supposed to smile and nod about my fiancé’s superior qualities.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, darling,” Lucille says, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “Your father would be so proud of you. You’re preserving his legacy through this marriage, securing the future of everything he built.”

The mention of my father makes my chest tighten. Would he really be proud?

“I’m not sure about that,” I murmur, pushing eggs around my plate.

“Of course, he would be.” Lucille’s voice takes on that patient tone she uses when explaining obvious things to children. “Darling, it’s perfectly natural not to be completely smitten in these types of situations. Love can grow over time. Look at your father and me. We had an arranged introduction through mutual friends. It was all very practical.”

I stare at her across the pristine table setting. Is she seriously using her marriage to my father as an example of love developing?

“Dad was obsessed with you from the moment you met. He used to tell me stories about how he pursued you for months before you’d even go to dinner with him.”

A small, satisfied smile plays at Lucille’s lips. “I know.”

The smugness in those two words hits me like a slap. She knows. She’s always known exactly how much my father adored her, and she’s never felt the same way about him.

“And look how it all turned out,” she continues, gesturing around the opulent morning room. “I have a wonderful life. Security, status, beautiful homes, respect in the community. That’s what I want for you, Audrey. Gio can give you all of that and more.”

The way she talks about my dad, as if his love was just a convenient bonus to the lifestyle he could provide, makes me feel like I’m going to be sick. Is that how she sees all marriage? As a transaction where affection is optional but financial security is essential?