Chapter 11
PAIGE
If you were to define elegant nonchalance, it would be Sylvie Li.
Her Como house has a small terrace that overlooks the lake, with a table that seats eight people. Its centerpiece is made up of lemons, dahlias, and giant candles, which Sylvie says her wife put together using some things leftover in the house.
She greets us both with kisses on the cheek and her signature sunglasses hiding her eyes. She’s in a sleeveless dress tied tight around her slim waist, and her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
“Come, come,” she tells us. “Welcome.”
Rafe pulls out a wrought iron chair for me at the table, and I sit down with a warm smile. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He smiles a little. “Of course, darling.”
It feels like two swords clashing.
The darling is the least genuine thing he’s ever said, and I wonder if it burned on his tongue. I hope it hurt him to say just as much as it does to hear.
Sylvie takes the seat opposite Rafe. She introduces me to the others, and I nod and say hi, feeling more and more out of place with each introduction. The people around this table are legendary.
There’s Vittoria Conti, a fifty-year-old Italian designer famous for her prints and patterns.
There’s a fashion journalist whose 2017 book about falsified craftsmanship in the luxury industry hit like a bomb.
One of the women is a model, I’m sure of it, and there’s a minor French actress at the table.
An actor and his famous wife are here, too.
I meet Leelyn, Sylvie’s wife, and I like her immediately. She’s a British stylist about ten years older than me with a quick glint in her eyes. Where Sylvie is mysterious elegance, she has a curly bob and an easy smile.
Rafe fits right in. I’m sure he’s invited to these dinners all the time. He certainly seems to know everyone here, and he talks to them in relaxed tones. He switches from English to French when needed, and at one point has a quiet conversation in Italian with Vittoria.
And then there’s me.
Anxiety is like a tight band around my chest. I hate that feeling the most. When it won’t quite let me go and the only thing I feel like doing is running. Distracting myself. Throwing myself into a project, off a precipice, or into a cool body of water to feel anything else.
Leelyn is the first to ask me about Rafe, and when she does, the table quiets. “Tell us the story,” she says. “We were all talking about it before you arrived, and I think we’ve all been patient enough. You must know we’re curious.”
I smile down at my Bellini, like I’m charmed by her question. “It was a surprise for both of us,” I say. “We were opponents for years, but I’d never actually met Rafe in person until… what was it?”
I smile at him across the table like he’s my favorite person in the world.
“Almost a year ago, darling.” He smiles a little, like he knows just how much the endearment boils my blood.
“That’s it, yes. He asked me to lunch when he was in New York, and I thought it was a business thing. I showed up with my laptop and talking points.”
“Raphael,” Sylvie chides, and Rafe chuckles. It’s a surprisingly warm sound, and I take another long sip of my drink.
“I wanted plausible deniability,” he says. “We were locked in negotiations for the company. You understand.”
“I don’t,” Sylvie says. “When I met Leelyn, I asked her out fifteen minutes later. The look on her face was priceless. She’d never been so surprised.”
“And flattered!” Leelyn says. “We moved in together a month later. But please, tell us more about your drawn-out courtship. I so love hearing about the complexities of straight dating culture.”
Rafe shakes his head. “She’s roasting me now, Sylvie. She’s roasting me.”
“She does that,” Sylvie says proudly.
“It’s an expression of love, really,” Leelyn adds. “So you did all this in secret?”
“Most of it, yes,” I say. My smile is entirely real. I like these people. “We kept seeing each other when Rafe was in New York.”
“How did you avoid the paps?” This question comes from the journalist two seats down. “I know you have your ways, but there wasn’t even a hint of a rumor.”
Rafe smiles. It splits his stubbled face, showing white teeth and making his eyes crinkle lightly at the corners. And there’s a dimple. A single one, on his left cheek.
It’s disconcerting. The devil doesn’t smile.
And he’s not supposed to look like that when he does it.
“There was a lot of sneaking around. Back doors, private dinners. I think you liked that, didn’t you?” He looks back at me. “All the secrecy.”
“Not quite as much as you,” I say sweetly. “You love a good secret.”
His eyes narrow, but he holds up his glass toward me. “To pulling it off,” he says.
I touch my glass to his. “And having them all fooled,” I say.
It’s too close to the truth, perhaps. But the others laugh, and I knock back half of my drink.
“It’s impressive,” Sylvie says. She’s not as quick to smile as the others around the table. Her eyes see much. Probably more than Rafe and I would like her to. “And your marriage neatly solved that little… corporate issue, too.”
I reach for a slice of focaccia. Emotional support bread. “It was a big problem between us in the beginning, I won’t lie. Trying to handle being together while also negotiating for Mather the reason the world doesn’t believe us.
“We had been talking about going public anyway.” Rafe looks at my hand, resting on the table next to my Bellini.
Don’t. Don’t…
And yet. It would help sell it.
I turn my palm up, and he sees it as the invitation it is. Rafe puts his large hand over mine. His skin is warm and a bit rough, and there’s a curious bruise on one of his knuckles. The one right next to where a gold signet ring sits.
“I didn’t want to hide her anymore,” he says.
When I’m anxious, I try to focus on the physical sensations around me. The feeling of the earth beneath my feet, the wind against my skin, the chair holding me up.
But right now, that sensation is his hand holding mine.
“It was the right time. When Rafe proposed, I…” My eyes drop to his fingers. “Well, it was the best day of my life. It solved everything we’d been working so hard at. It was a leap of faith, but I’m so glad we made it.”
My words are sweeter than the Bellini I’m drinking. So sweet it makes my teeth ache. We’ve overshot. We must have, but I look away from Rafe to see the others nodding along. Enzo is smiling a little. Leelyn is looking at us intently, her head cocked.
Sylvie’s eyes don’t give a single thing away.
“What I’m really upset about,” Vittoria says, “is your wedding. Here I’ve known you since you were eight years old, Rafe, and I wasn’t invited.”
“The courthouse photos were tragic,” Sylvie says.
“Abominable,” Leelyn agrees. “You looked gorgeous, of course, Paige. But you both looked miserable.”
“It can’t have been their real wedding,” Enzo chimes in. He’s a famous fashion photographer, gray streaks through his hair and silver rings on his right hand. “Legal, sure. But not the celebration. Rafe Montclair would never, no. Not in a New York courthouse.”
They all look at us.
I look at Rafe.
He doesn’t hesitate. His lips curves up in a crooked smile. “Of course not. Our real wedding ceremony will be here in Como.”
Vittoria claps her hands and Enzo cheers. Several of the others lift their glasses.
“Excellent,” Sylvie says. “I’ll make the wedding dress, Paige. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Caterers, sweetheart. Do you have caterers? I can call Antonio. He books up months in advance, but he’ll make an exception for you,” Vittoria says.
“When is the ceremony?” Leelyn asks.
I grip his hand tight. “Did we decide on a date?” I ask.
His fingers grip mine back. “Two weeks from today.”