Chapter 4 A Place Kept in Shadow
YSABEL
The kitchen is quiet at this hour, the staff not yet arrived for the day's work.
I like it best like this, when I can move through the space without feeling like I'm trespassing in my own house.
The morning light comes through the high windows and falls across the stone counters in pale stripes, and the whole room smells faintly of the bread that was baked yesterday.
I pull down a small bag of ground almonds and measure out just enough for a test batch of biscuits.
Not the full recipe, just a handful, enough to check the proportions for two instead of a crowd.
I want to make sure I have the quantities right before I commit to the real thing, because an anniversary dinner is no place for guesswork.
The dough comes together easily under my fingers, the familiar motion steadying me while my mind wanders.
Six days until our anniversary. Six days until the evening Leon promised would be ours.
I think about the table I'll set, the candles I'll light, the look on his face when he comes home to find everything ready.
I think about how it felt last year, sitting on the kitchen floor with bread and cheese and a husband who said it was the best anniversary he'd ever had.
I want that again. I want one evening where it's just us, without his mother's corrections or Nadia's presence or the weight of all the ways I'm supposed to be different than I am.
I shape the dough into crescents, working quickly, the muscle memory carrying me through.
My grandmother made these for special occasions, for saints' days and feast days and the rare afternoons when she had time and sugar to spare.
My mother learned them from her, and I learned them from my mother, and now here I am in a Don's kitchen making them for an anniversary that feels more fragile than it should.
The back door opens and closes, and I hear footsteps crossing the flagstones. Leon appears in the doorway, still in the clothes he wears for his morning walk through the groves, a habit he's had since before I knew him.
"I thought I smelled something good." He crosses to where I'm working and peers over my shoulder at the small mounds of dough on the baking sheet. "Testing the recipe?"
"Making sure the amounts work for two. I don't want to end up with enough biscuits to feed the whole estate."
"That sounds like a problem I'd be happy to have." He watches me shape the last crescent, then leans against the counter with his arms folded. "You're really planning something special, aren't you?"
"I told you I would."
"I know. I just..." He pauses, searching for words. "I'm glad. That you're doing this. That you want to."
"Why wouldn't I want to?"
"I don't know. Things have been..." He trails off, and I see him struggling with how to finish the sentence.
"Things have been complicated," I say, letting him off the hook. "But our anniversary doesn't have to be. Just you and me and too much food and maybe a bottle of wine we'll regret in the morning."
"That sounds perfect."
"It sounds ordinary. That's the point."
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "I'll be there. I promise."
"I know."
But even as I say it, I'm not sure I do know. I want to believe him. I want to trust that this one evening will be different from all the others, that when it matters most he'll choose me over everything else demanding his attention.
I slide the baking sheet into the oven and set the timer. "Twenty minutes. Then we'll see if I got the proportions right."
Leon stays where he is, watching me wipe flour from my hands. "You look tired," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
"Because it's true." I set the bowl on the drying rack and turn to face him. "I just haven't been sleeping well. Too much on my mind."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
Everything, I think. Nothing I know how to say. "Just the usual. Planning. Worrying. The things everyone worries about."
He nods, accepting this, and I'm grateful that he doesn't push.
There are conversations we need to have, I know that.
Conversations about where I fit in this house and this family and this life I've built with him.
But not now. Not this morning, with flour still dusting my apron and the smell of almonds filling the kitchen.
"I should go clean up," he says. "I have calls to make before lunch. But save me a biscuit?"
"Maybe. If you're lucky."
He grins and heads for the door, pausing to look back at me. "Six days."
"Six days."
"I'll be there."
And then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor, and I'm alone again with the quiet kitchen and the timer counting down.
***
The conversation happens that afternoon, in the small sitting room off the main hall.
I've been resting, or trying to. The nausea came back around midday, sharper than usual, and I gave up on lunch and lay down on the settee with a glass of water and a book I couldn't concentrate on.
The tiredness is getting harder to ignore, a heaviness in my limbs that doesn't lift no matter how much I sleep.
When the door opens, I expect Leon. Instead, it's all three of them: Vera first, then Nadia, then Leon bringing up the rear with the expression of a man who's been summoned to a meeting he didn't call.
I sit up, pushing the blanket aside, and something in my stomach tightens that has nothing to do with nausea.
"Ysabel," Vera says, settling into the chair across from me with the grace of a woman who has never questioned her right to any seat she chooses. "We need to discuss the arrangements for the launch."
Nadia takes the chair beside her, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap. Leon moves to the window but doesn't sit, his shoulder against the frame, watching.
"What arrangements?" I ask, though I already know.
"The overseas events. The main presentation is two evenings before your anniversary, with the final dinner the following night. Leon will fly back the morning of your anniversary and be home in time for dinner."
"I know all this. Leon told me."
"What we haven't discussed," Vera continues smoothly, "is the question of family representation. Leon can't manage the business side and the social obligations simultaneously. He needs someone with him who can handle the dinners, the conversations, the impression we make on our new partners."
I set my water glass on the side table. "I'm not going to argue about whether I should travel. I know I can't. Three days of events, the flights, the schedule. I can barely keep food down. I'm not pretending otherwise."
Vera's eyebrows lift slightly, as if she expected resistance and isn't sure what to do without it. Nadia's expression remains pleasant, waiting.
"But I do have something to say about who goes in my place and how it's framed."
"Go on," Vera says.
"Nadia isn't family. She's not Leon's wife. She's not a Rosciano. If she's there handling social obligations, she should be introduced as what she actually is. An investor. A business partner. A colleague. Whatever word fits. Not family representation."
The silence stretches. Nadia shifts slightly in her chair, and I see her glance toward Vera before speaking.
"I understand your concern," Nadia says, her voice measured. "I'm not trying to claim a position that isn't mine. I'm simply offering skills that might be useful."
"Then you won't mind being introduced accurately."
Leon clears his throat from the window. "Ysabel has a point. Nadia can help with the social side without any confusion about her role. Partner, investor, however we want to phrase it."
Vera's mouth thins almost imperceptibly. "People will ask questions regardless. When Leon arrives without his wife, there will be speculation. Better to have a clear narrative than to leave gaps others will fill."
"The clear narrative," I say, "is that his wife is unwell and couldn't travel. That's the truth. That's what you tell people when they ask. Not that you've found someone more suitable to stand in."
"No one said anything about suitable."
"You didn't have to."
The room goes quiet again. I look at Leon, still leaning against the window frame, his jaw tight. He meets my eyes but doesn't move to sit beside me, doesn't cross the room to show whose side he's on. The distance between us feels wider than the few feet of carpet.
"Leon," I say. "I'm asking you to make the distinction clear. Nadia is there to help with business. She's not representing our family. I'm your family. I'm the one you come home to."
"I know that."
"Then say it. To them. Now."
He pushes off from the window and stands straighter, looking at his mother. "Ysabel's right. Whatever introductions we make, whatever explanations we give, Nadia is there in a professional capacity. Nothing more."
Vera's expression doesn't change, but I see her fingers tighten slightly on the arm of her chair. "Of course. No one suggested otherwise."
"Good. Then we understand each other."
The words are correct. The tone is careful, measured, the voice of a man trying to navigate between two shores without committing fully to either. He's not confronting her. He's managing the conversation, finding the path of least resistance that lets everyone walk away feeling heard.
It's not enough. I know it's not enough. But it's something, and right now something is all I have the strength to fight for.
"The anniversary dinner," I say, looking at Leon. "You'll be home in time."
"I will. The return flight is booked for the morning. I'll be back before evening."
"Promise me. Not the schedule, not the booking. You. Promising me you'll be here."
He crosses the room then, finally, and sits on the edge of the settee near my feet. His hand rests on my ankle. "I promise. Whatever happens over there, I'll be home for our anniversary. Dinner with my wife. That's what matters."