Thirty-four
Ellory
My personal chef has made something nicer than the usual takeout—steak, roasted vegetables, tiramisu for dessert.
My house smells warm and inviting, though I don’t bother setting the table.
Just in case. If my father doesn’t show up with Heather, I’d rather not have to scrape away the extra place setting like it means something.
The knock comes sooner than I expect. My heart skips as I smooth my hands over my dress, and when I open the door, Matteo is standing there with Amelia balanced on one arm.
Before I can even greet them, he dips down and kisses me—deep, certain, passionate.
The kind of kiss that steals the air right out of my chest.
When he finally pulls back, I’m grinning, breathless. Amelia babbles between us, reaching out with chubby hands. I press a kiss to her cheek, and she answers with a wet slobber across mine that has all three of us laughing.
“Yours are wetter than mine,” I tease her, and she squeals like she understands.
But Matteo’s eyes are on me, sharp in a way that sees too much. He shifts Amelia higher on his hip and lowers his voice. “You’re nervous.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his gaze doesn’t let me.
“Want me to pull you into the other room? Out of Amelia’s sight? Take care of you?” His tone is low, teasing, but there’s heat there too, the kind that makes my pulse trip.
For a moment I imagine it, how easy it would be to let him strip away the tension the way only he can. My body aches for it. But I shake my head, forcing a smile. “My father’s due any moment. And I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, pressing another soft kiss to my temple. Amelia squeals again, tugging at my hair, and just like that, I’m grounded.
The doorbell rings just as I’m finishing the salad. My stomach flips. Dad’s here. The question is, is he alone or is Heather on his arm. A part of me hopes Heather is with him. I know he really had feelings for her. He didn’t want to disappoint her.
I wipe my hands on a towel and glance at Matteo. He gives me a crooked grin, equal parts reassurance and warning. Here we go.
When I open the door, my father stands there looking both regal and out of place, his sharp suit a contrast to the warm glow of my little dining room. His gaze flicks to Matteo and then drops to Amelia, who is clutching Matteo’s leg.
“Papa,” I say carefully.
“Ellory.” He leans in to kiss both my cheeks, his cologne familiar, grounding and unsettling all at once. Then his eyes soften. “This must be Amelia.”
Before I can answer, Amelia wobbles forward, her steps uncertain but determined. She raises her chubby arms toward him like she’s known him forever. To my surprise, Papa bends, scoops her up, and she immediately pats his cheek. The corner of his mouth curves into something almost tender.
“She has spirit,” he says. “Just like you do.” He looks at me and smiles.
Matteo steps forward, protective but polite. “Thank you for letting us crash your dinner with Ellory.”
Papa extends his hand, shifting Amelia to one side.
“I owe you an apology. I’m sorry about what I accused your father of when my Ellory was in the hospital.
” His eyes linger, assessing, before he adds, “I’ve spoken to the police, and I really can’t recall how I thought that.
Your father was involved in the construction of our building originally.
He was easy to work with, but in those days, things were run by guys with broken noses if you know what I mean. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve asked around, but no one seems to know anything. It could be true. The police still feel it was an accident, but we’ve never felt that way.”
“I don’t think anyone felt that way. But I’m sorry for what I said. It was out of line.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry about Heather.”
“One of my friends has set me up with someone later next week. I’ll be fine.”
What? “Who set you up and how old is she?”
“Your mother set me up, and she’s much closer to our age.”
“Maman? When did you talk to her?” They talk to one another? How often?
“She called shortly after you spoke to her. She wanted to remind me what the divorce decree said and that I should be dating women my own age and the next thing I knew, I was being set up.”
The apology was a surprise. I never asked him to say anything, but I did think about it. It lightens the air in the room. I catch Matteo’s hand, squeezing.
Papa sighs, looking directly at me. “I owe you an apology too. For all the mess Heather created. I should have seen it sooner, stepped in sooner.” His gaze flicks to Matteo. “And to you both, for what she took. Night to Remember deserved better than to be tarnished by theft.”
Matteo’s jaw flexes, but his voice is steady. “We’re moving forward. The collection will stand on its own.”
Papa nods, studying Amelia as she tugs on his tie. “Perhaps. Though I still think spending a million dollars on a dress borders on insanity.” His tone sharpens, then eases as he adds, “But…I trust my daughter. If you believe in it, Ellory, then I believe in you.”
Heat rises in my chest, part pride, part relief.
“And Dante,” he continues, “and Antoine—yes, there is something there. The buzz in the office is undeniable. Even I can feel it. I suspect you’ll have more success than you can measure.”
The words hang in the air like an olive branch. For once, I let myself breathe.
“Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.
Amelia squeals suddenly, as if sensing the shift. She pats his cheek again, drool and all, and he actually chuckles. The sound is rare, but it fills my tiny dining room like a gift.
Maybe this dinner won’t be a disaster after all.
Papa lets Amelia down, and she toddles back to Matteo, squealing when he swoops her into his arms. The tension eases a fraction, and I step aside.
“Come in, Papa. Dinner’s ready.”
He follows me through the hallway into the dining room, his sharp eyes cataloguing every detail as though my home is a boutique window display.
The table glows under soft candlelight. The chef dropped off the meal earlier—braised short ribs, roasted vegetables, a velvety potato purée, and a tart to finish.
Matteo slides Amelia into her highchair, fastening the straps with a casual tenderness that still makes my chest ache. She babbles happily, pounding her spoon against the tray.
Papa watches. “You’ve chosen well,” he murmurs, nodding toward Matteo.
My cheeks warm, but I don’t answer. Instead, I gesture to his seat. “Please, sit.”
We serve family-style, which feels unusual with Papa, who’s more accustomed to courses served on china in a dining room staffed with waiters. Yet he surprises me by helping himself without complaint, even spooning mashed potatoes onto Amelia’s tray when she reaches with grabby hands.
“This is very good,” Papa says after a bite, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Did you cook it?”
I smile faintly. “No. My chef prepared it earlier.”
His brows lift. “Of course. Even better.”
The conversation falters for a moment, then he clears his throat.
“Ellory, I want you to know, I may not always understand your choices. But I see the way people talk about the collection. About you. The Marino brothers, Antoine… You have momentum. Real momentum. It reminds me of when Olivier was just starting out.” He pauses, eyes softening. “When I was just starting out.”
Matteo lifts his glass. “To beginnings then,” he says smoothly, raising it toward Papa.
Papa studies him for a long beat before lifting his own. “To beginnings.”
The crystal chimes together, and Amelia laughs like she’s in on the toast.
I look between them—my father, stern but trying, and Matteo, steady at my side—and let myself hope. That this is the start of something new.
Papa takes another measured bite of the short ribs, his gaze flicking between me and Matteo, as if weighing more than just the food.
“Tell me,” he says finally, setting down his fork. “Matteo, you have brothers, yes?”
Matteo nods. “Three. Dante, Luca, and Ciro. We run Luster together with our little sister, Gianna.”
Papa leans back slightly, studying him. “Family businesses are… complicated. Success and rivalry go hand in hand. How do you manage it?”
Matteo doesn’t flinch. “We argue. We disagree. But at the end of the day, blood and loyalty matter more than pride. That’s how we keep going.”
Papa tilts his head as though filing the answer away. “Loyalty.” His eyes shift to me, softer this time. “That’s a good word. It has not always been easy in our family.”
The admission stirs something in my chest, but before I can answer, Amelia bangs her spoon against her tray, sending mashed potatoes flying. She squeals with delight.
Papa actually chuckles. Then he pulls a linen napkin from beside his plate and dabs at her hands. “You’re a messy little queen, aren’t you?”
Matteo grins, his hand brushing mine under the table. “She rules us, that’s for sure.”
For a moment, the room feels lighter.
Papa sips his wine and looks back at Matteo. “And you are raising her alone?”
The question lands heavy. Matteo’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. “Yes. Her mother isn’t in the picture. It’s just me.”
Papa nods slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, almost surprising himself, he says, “I respect that. Many men would have faltered.”
“Oh I have, but in addition to my aunt and uncle who raised us, I have an incredible nanny.”
Silence stretches, not awkward this time but thoughtful.
He squeezes my hand once, brief but real, then withdraws. “I don’t pretend to have been the perfect father, Ellory. But I would like to do better now if you’ll allow me.”
My throat tightens. For once, I don’t have a ready answer. Matteo’s thumb circles against my palm, grounding me, and Amelia babbles happily between us, like she’s reminding all three of us what really matters.
Papa sets his wineglass down, his gaze drifting toward Amelia, who is busy smearing potato purée across her tray like an artist at work. His voice lowers, softer than I’ve heard in years.
“You know,” he says, “when you were about Amelia’s age, Ellory, you did the same thing. We were in Lyon, visiting your grandmother. You refused to eat from the spoon and instead scooped fistfuls of food into your mouth. Your mother was horrified. I remember laughing until my sides hurt.”
The memory hangs between us, fragile and unexpected.
“I don’t remember that,” I whisper.
“You wouldn’t,” Papa says. “But I do. And I remember thinking, even then, you would do things your own way. That has never changed.”
My chest tightens. I blink quickly, fighting the sting in my eyes. “I didn’t know you noticed.”
His lips press together, regret flickering across his face. “I noticed more than I ever said.”
Matteo slides his hand over mine, steady and warm. Papa watches the gesture but doesn’t comment. Instead, he picks up his fork again, almost as though the heaviness of his words unsettles him.
Amelia babbles a string of sounds and claps her hands, breaking the tension. Papa leans toward her, brushing a crumb from her cheek. “Yes, little one,” he murmurs. “I see you too.”
Something inside me loosens, like a knot finally given permission to unravel.
Dinner finishes and Papa tells me he has a busy morning and stands to leave. Amelia has crashed in Matteo’s arms. He’s covered in mashed potatoes, and it doesn’t bother him. He’s a different man than I had lunch with that day, and I really like the change.
When the door clicks shut behind Papa, the house feels impossibly still. I sag against it, letting out the breath I’ve been holding all night.
Matteo adjusts Amelia on his shoulder, her bunny dangling from her hand as she drifts in and out of sleep. He looks at me with a raised brow. “You okay?”
“I am,” I whisper, surprising myself. Then I straighten. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I lead him upstairs to the bedroom across the hall from my room and open the door.
The nursery glows in soft lamplight. The crib, white and perfect, is dressed in star-embroidered bedding.
A mobile of clouds and moons hangs above.
Shelves are lined with books and toys, a dresser is already stocked, and a rocking chair waits in the corner with a knit blanket folded over the arm.
Every detail is chosen with care. Every inch says Amelia belongs here.
Matteo freezes in the doorway. His breath catches, sharp and unguarded. He steps inside slowly, like he’s afraid the room will vanish if he moves too fast. “Ellory…” His voice cracks, low and reverent. “This is for her?”
Heat floods my cheeks. I cross my arms loosely, suddenly shy. “Yes. I just thought…if you ever stayed over, she should have her own space. I wanted her to feel like this was home too.” My voice wavers, the confession raw. “I wanted her to know she belongs here—with me.”
Matteo turns to me, eyes shining with something I’ve never seen before. He tightens his hold on Amelia, pressing his cheek against her soft hair. For a long moment, he just looks at me, overwhelmed, silent.
Finally, he swallows hard. “No one’s ever done something like this for us.” His voice breaks again. “You don’t know what this means.”
I step closer, my hand trembling as I brush Amelia’s blanket. “I think I do,” I whisper. “At least a little.”
He lowers his forehead to mine, his hand cupping the back of my neck, grounding me. “You’ve given her more than a room, Ellory. You’ve given her—us—a home.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t look away. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
In the quiet glow of Amelia’s new nursery, with her dreaming safely in his arms and his lips brushing mine, I let myself believe this could be the beginning of everything.