Page 3 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)
Lily
“Hold still,” Zoe commands, wielding an eyeliner pen with surgical precision. “Unless you want to look like a raccoon instead of a sophisticated woman.”
I try not to flinch as she lines my waterline. “Remind me again why I agreed to this makeover?”
“Because,” she says, stepping back to assess her work, “you said—and I quote—‘I’m sick of Dad treating me like I’m twelve.’ Then you ranted for twenty minutes about how he still has that photo of you with braces and pigtails as his phone background.”
I groan, remembering that awful seventh-grade picture. “He showed it to the Canadian Prime Minister last year.”
“Exactly.” Zoe circles me, her artist’s eye critical. “If you want him to stop seeing little Lily with the scraped knees and start seeing grown-up Lily who deserves respect, you need to look the part.”
She’s right, even if I hate admitting it. The girl who stumbled late into Professor Martinez’s class yesterday, hair wild and coffee-stained, isn’t going to convince my father I’m capable of making my own decisions.
“Now for the dress,” Zoe declares, throwing open my closet doors with dramatic flair. She pushes aside my collection of hoodies and jeans, digging until she unearths something black and silky. “This. This is perfect.”
“That’s for funerals,” I protest weakly.
“It’s Chanel, Lily. Your mother’s Chanel that she gave you for your birthday. It’s for making statements.” She tosses it at me. “Put it on.”
The dress fits like it was made for me—which it basically was, since Mom had it tailored. The hem hits just above my knees, sophisticated without trying too hard. I slip into the black heels Zoe insists upon, wobbling slightly.
“Don’t you dare fall at Le Bernardin,” she warns, attacking my hair with a curling iron. “The New York Times society page would have a field day. ‘Governor’s Daughter Face-Plants in Lobster Bisque.’”
“Thanks for that mental image.” I watch as she transforms my usually unruly hair into soft waves that frame my face. The stranger in the mirror looks elegant, composed—nothing like the hurricane that blew into Political Theory yesterday.
“There,” Zoe says finally, satisfaction warming her voice. “Now you look like someone who deserves to be taken seriously.”
My phone chimes with a text from Dad’s driver: “Downstairs, Ms. Moore.”
“Game time,” I murmur, grabbing my small clutch. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” Zoe says, adjusting one of my curls. “Just don’t back down. Remember—Albany is a prison sentence. Stand your ground.”
The black town car waits at the curb, its engine purring softly in the cool evening air. The driver, Thomas, has been with our family for years. He raises an eyebrow when he sees me.
“Ms. Lily,” he says, opening the door. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thanks, Thomas.” I slide into the leather backseat, careful not to wrinkle the dress. “How’s Angela? Did she have the baby yet?”
His weathered face breaks into a smile. “Last week. A little girl. Seven pounds, three ounces.”
“That’s wonderful! Please give her my congratulations.”
As we glide through Manhattan traffic, I feel my phone vibrate.
Zoe: Repeat after me: I AM A GROWN WOMAN WHO MAKES HER OWN CHOICES.
I smile, typing back: I AM A GROWN WOMAN WHO MAKES HER OWN CHOICES.
Zoe: And Albany is...?
Me: A soul-crushing vortex where dreams go to die.
Zoe: That’s my girl. Now go knock his gubernatorial socks off.
The car slides to a stop in front of Le Bernardin, its discreet entrance illuminated by soft lighting. Thomas comes around to open my door, offering his hand as I step out. I take a deep breath, smoothing my dress.
“Your father is already inside, Ms. Lily,” Thomas says. “Table fourteen.”
“Thank you.” I straighten my shoulders, channeling the confidence of the sophisticated woman in my mirror. No more pigtails. No more braces. No more letting Dad dictate my life.
The ma?tre d’ recognizes me immediately—hazard of being a politician’s daughter—and leads me through the restaurant with its hushed conversations and crystal glassware. I spot Dad at a corner table, his back to me as he speaks with someone I can’t yet see.
“Your daughter has arrived, Governor Moore,” the ma?tre d’ announces.
Dad turns, his familiar smile spreading across his face.
But it’s the man rising to his feet beside him that catches my attention—tall, imposingly broad-shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
He can’t be the mayoral candidate Dad mentioned. He’s too young, too... magnetic.
“Lily,” Dad says, standing to kiss my cheek. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I keep my voice steady and mature.
“Allow me to introduce Luca Ravello,” Dad says, gesturing to the stranger who now towers over both of us. “Luca, this is my daughter, Lily.”
Luca Ravello takes my offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips in a gesture that should seem outdated but somehow doesn’t. His eyes never leave mine, and something in them—something darkly appreciative—makes my carefully constructed composure waver.
“Ms. Moore,” he says, his voice a deep baritone with the faintest hint of a Brooklyn accent beneath polished tones. “Your father speaks of you constantly, but his descriptions didn’t do you justice.”
“Do you mind if Mr. Ravello joins us for dinner? We haven’t finished our conversation yet.” My father seems uncharacteristically eager to please his friend.
I shake my head. “No, of course not. I don’t mind.” I’m suddenly delighted by Zoe’s makeup expertise, because I can feel heat creeping up my neck. “Mr. Ravello. I understand you’re running for mayor?”
His smile is slow, devastating. One corner of his mouth lifts higher than the other, revealing a flash of perfect white teeth against olive skin.
“Please, call me Luca.” His voice rolls my name with a hint of gravel beneath the polish.
“And yes, though your father is making me work for his endorsement.”
Dad laughs, the familiar sound suddenly jarring in this charged atmosphere.
He pulls out my chair, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor.
“Can’t make it too easy, can I?” His hand rests briefly on my shoulder, possessive.
“Lily, Luca has some fascinating ideas about urban development. I thought you might be interested, given your studies.”
As I sit down, I catch Luca watching me with that same intense gaze, as if he’s trying to see beneath the sophisticated exterior to the real me. I straighten my shoulders, determined to project the confidence I’ve dressed for.
“I’d love to hear them,” I say, unfolding the crisp white napkin and placing it carefully across my lap, the heavy linen cool against my bare knees.
I lean forward slightly, my Chanel dress shifting with a whisper of expensive fabric.
“Especially your position on affordable housing for college students. The apartment I share with Zoe costs more than most people’s mortgages, and it’s barely bigger than my childhood bedroom. Manhattan rent is absolutely criminal.”
Luca’s smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth against his olive skin.
One corner of his mouth lifts higher than the other, giving him a predatory edge that sends a strange electric thrill racing from my neck down to my fingertips.
His eyes—deep blue like the ocean at midnight—never leave mine as he leans forward slightly, the expensive fabric of his tailored suit stretching across broad shoulders.
“I couldn’t agree more, Lily,” he says, my name lingering on his tongue like something savored.
“In fact, I have several proposals I think you’ll find. .. intriguing.”
As he speaks, the restaurant around us seems to recede—the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversations, even my father’s presence beside me fading to background noise.
I realize with startling clarity that this dinner is going to be nothing like I expected.
And for once, I’m not checking my watch or planning my exit strategy or counting down the minutes until I can escape.