Page 52 of Luca

"Good idea," Luca agrees, but his eyes never leave my father's face. "Family is so important, don't you think? It’s good that we had this dinner together."

"Yes," my father says weakly. "Family is everything."

We walk back into the restaurant together, but the easy atmosphere from earlier is completely gone. Elena chatters about dessert and plans for future gatherings while my father can’t stop glancing at me with barely concealed panic. Luca keeps studying both of us with those calculating eyes that miss nothing while calmly drinking a glass of wine.

By the time we say our goodbyes, my nerves are stretched to the breaking point. Luca hasn't said a word since we left the restaurant, but I notice him watching me when we return to the villa

"That was nice," I say as he closes the door behind us, trying to fill the silence.

"Was it?"

I turn to look at him. “Is something wrong?"

"You tell me, Sofia. Is there something I should know about your conversation with your father?"

The way he says my name - Sofia - makes it sound like a question. Like he's testing how I'll respond to being called by a name that may or may not be mine.

"It was nothing. Normal father-daughter talk."

"He seemed upset."

"He worries about me. It's what fathers do."

"Is it?" Luca moves closer. "Because from where I was standing, it looked more like he was afraid of you."

"My father? Afraid of me? That's ridiculous."

"Is it? Because I could have sworn I heard him say something about fixing this. What exactly needs to be fixed?"

"Nothing needs to be fixed. We're fine. Everything's fine."

"Are we? Because I've been thinking about tonight. About the way your father looked at you. About the things he said." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "And I'm starting to wonder if my wife is exactly who she claims to be."

The words hang between us.

For a split-second, I consider telling him everything. About Sofia's terror, about the switch, about how I've been living a lie since our wedding day.

Instead, I do what I've been doing for weeks. I lie to my husband again.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?"

He reaches up and traces the line of my jaw with one finger, the touch gentle but somehow threatening.

"Because I'm very good at reading people. And right now, you look like someone who's hiding something very important from me."

"Everyone has secrets."

"Do they? What secrets are you keeping from your husband?"

The question hangs in the air, loaded with possibility and danger. I could tell him everything. I could confess and throw myself on his mercy and hope that what's growing between us is strong enough to survive the truth.

Or I could keep lying and hope that love built on deception can somehow become real.

"The only secret I'm keeping," I say, reaching up to touch his face, "is how much I've come to care about you."

It's not entirely a lie.