Page 25

D inner at the Ramirez estate isn’t nearly as bad as I expected.

At first, there was an undercurrent of tension, the kind only men who have sized each other up for years can create.

My father and Sammy’s.

My father and Sammy.

My father and, basically, everyone who ever looked at me too long.

But then Ellie brought out the first course, and scowling while shoveling her famous sourdough focaccia into their mouths proved too difficult.

Because holy hell—that sourdough?

Life-changing.

I take a bite, my eyes fluttering closed as the flavors dance across my tongue. The tang of the sourdough, the richness of olive oil, the pop of sea salt, basil, and plum tomatoes.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Ramirez,” I murmur, savoring it.

Ellie laughs a soft, motherly sound.

“Aella, I have known you since you were in diapers.” She winks, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You used to call me Ellie, and I insist you still do.”

I blush, nodding.

“Okay, Ellie.”

I feel warm inside, this fuzzy, unfamiliar sense of belonging curling in my chest.

“So, tell us about Vegas, baby,” my mother teases as we follow Ellie into the kitchen to help with the rest of the meal.

In the dining room, I can hear Sammy, my father, Andres, and Mr. Ramirez talking business. Something about markets, investments, mining.

I should probably pay attention, but my brain is too full of nerves.

Because I know my mother well enough to know this conversation is about to turn into an interrogation.

“What about it?” I shrug, keeping my tone neutral. “I mean, Vegas is Vegas.”

“Yes, but where did you do it?”

I freeze.

Because Jesus Christ— she doesn’t mean it like that.

But my mind?

It goes there.

Right to Sammy’s hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, his filthy words wrecking me inside and out.

For one mortifying second, I wonder if my mother can read the thought right off my burning face.

“Uh, it was just a chapel by the hotel,” I manage, voice weak.

Ellie pauses, turns to me with tears shimmering in her hazel eyes, eyes that look so much like her son’s.

And then she asks it.

The one question I wasn’t prepared for.

“Do you love him, Aella?”

Something curls tight inside my chest.

Not fear.

Not doubt.

But the sheer weight of the truth pressing against my ribs, against my throat, until it spills out before I can even think to stop it.

“I do.”

My voice doesn’t waver.

“I’ve loved him forever.”

Ellie lets out a breath, and my mother sniffs, swiping at her eyes.

I didn’t mean to make them cry.

But they are.

And suddenly, I am too.

“Oh, baby, I am so happy for you,” my mother says, dragging me into a hug. “I always dreamed you would find real love. Are you happy?”

“I think I am, Mom.”

“He’s a good boy, my Sammy. He’ll work hard to make you happy,” Ellie whispers, pressing her palm to my cheek.

“He does. He makes me feel special,” I whisper, like I’m afraid if I say it aloud it will all disappear.

The moment is warm and real and overwhelming, but at the same time guilt creeps in.

Because Sammy hasn’t heard me say it yet.

He should have been the first to know.

I should have told him in Vegas, in bed, in the heat of when my body and soul are completely his.

But I didn’t.

And now? Now I don’t know how.

I know I have to.

I promise myself I will.

Soon.

Very soon.

But not here.

Not now.

Not with an audience waiting to pick apart every expression on his face.

I push the thoughts away as I carry a bowl of sautéed spinach and potatoes into the dining room.

Ellie follows with a platter of rib roast, and my mother brings a dish of roasted root vegetables.

Everything smells warm and rich and perfect.

I feel Sammy’s eyes on me before I even see him.

He’s standing, chair pulled out, hands extended to take the bowl from me.

I hand it over, watching as he sets it down on the table.

Then I sit and he pushes my chair in.

Leans in.

Whispers.

“You good?”

There’s curiosity in his gaze, but also concern.

I nod too quickly.

“Yeah. Yep. I’m good.”

But my heart is racing, hammering so hard I swear it’s shaking the entire table.

I wonder if he can see it.

If he knows.

Knows that I love him.

Knows that I have always loved him.

And the real question?

What will Sammy do with that knowledge?

Because some men don’t know what to do with love.

Some reject it.

Some fear it.

Some don’t want messy emotions, complicated truths, the vulnerability of being completely and utterly claimed.

What kind of man is Sammy?

What will he do when he finally understands what’s in my heart?

I barely touch my food.

Not because it’s not good— it’s incredible —but because I can’t concentrate.

I feel restless.

Like I’m holding something inside my chest that’s about to break open.

But then Andres speaks, and suddenly, my mind is on a whole new track.

“Aella, how’s the app coming?”

My head snaps up.

“The app?” I blink. “You know about ReadEase ?”

“Of course. When Sammy brought it up at our board meeting, we were all instantly taken with your idea to create an app specifically designed to aid people living with dyslexia.”

I feel warmth spread through me.

And then—confusion.

“What do you mean when Sammy brought it up? Why were you at a Volkov Industries board meeting?”

I turn to my husband and his lips press together.

“Because I’m on the board.”

“What?”

“I own part of the company.”

I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

“You own a piece of Volkov?” my father asks, his brows skyrocketing.

Sammy leans back, totally unfazed.

“I’m sure you’ve run a background check on me, Mr. Fury. You probably didn’t recognize the company name I use for my business holdings.”

His hazel eyes glint.

“Maxwell Mining.”

The room shifts.

My father stills.

Andres grins.

Ellie and Mom are looking back and forth.

“Maxwell Mining? You are Maxwell Mining?”

Dad’s voice dips low, and I see it.

Recognition.

He knows something about my husband that I don’t.

And I’m not sure how to feel about that.

“I do,” Sammy says and nods once.

“No business talk at the table,” Ellie interjects, voice light but firm. “Come on, it’s time for dessert.”

And fuck—I have never been so grateful for an interruption in my entire fucking life.

“Sammy,” I begin, but he squeezes my hand and shakes his head.

“Later, Pixie. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me later.”

“Okay.”

Dessert is a delicious chocolate cake dripping with ganache and fresh raspberries on top.

It’s decadent and delicious, and I have mine with an espresso and a drop of Anisette.

By now the men are all talking lowly and Ellie and Mom are hinting about the reception they want to throw.

But I can’t think of any of that right now because I just learned that Sammy is responsible for Volkov Industries funding my app.

And I need to know why.